After the Storm
by seabluemermaid
Summary: My version of what happened to the Underlays & the Varons after the storm in The Last Goodbye. I don't own Invasion nor its characters. Here is Chapter 12! Yep, I'm trying to update more regularly. Hope you like it!
1. Chapter 1

**After the Storm**

**Chapter One**

"She's gone, Mariel. I lost my wife, I lost my baby. All because of _him_."

Those words were like daggers, flying from the next room and expertly hitting their target. Tom Underlay ventured a glance at Russell Varon, who glared back angrily at him. Mariel, with her back to Tom, was trying to calm her ex-husband. Tom had no doubt that if his wife wasn't there, Russell would have lunged at him and the two men would've gotten into a fistfight, as they had not that long ago.

_Better not to get in the way right now_, Tom advised himself. He did what he had to do, or what he thought was their only hope in order to save the life of Russell's wife, Larkin. Not that Russell wanted to hear that and, really, Tom couldn't blame him. Russell was also distraught and Tom wasn't doing much better himself. The only one there with her wits about her, thankfully, was Mariel.

Just to catch some fresh air, Tom stepped out of the house, that humble little shack in the glades where Russell had lived with Larkin and the kids. Now that the hurricane had passed, swirled right out of town and straight into the ocean, it was turning out to be a gorgeous day.

That didn't seem right somehow, not after all the misery the hurricane had left. Tom leaned against the wall, remembering the moment Larkin had been swept out of his arms in the water. His heart had broken when he'd seen that gaping exit wound, and Larkin—well, she was such a little thing, not much bigger than his daughter Kira. Even pregnant, she was so light in his arms as he'd carried her across the sand and into the water, knowing the woman was at death's door.

But everything would be all right, he reminded himself. He had to believe that. For all he knew, Larkin was already stepping out of the water, both she and her baby healed and whole.

Healed and whole . . . but different. Tom groaned, recalling the first words Russell had said to him, words spat out in a rage and inconsolable grief.

_I want my Larkin—and you've changed her forever, you bastard!_

Tom pushed open the door slightly. He peered in and saw Mariel turning to him. Russell saw him but looked away.

"I'll be back," Tom said. "I'm—I've got to see about something."

"Okay, honey," Mariel replied. "Careful, okay?"

"I will be, baby."

So here we go: back to being the bad guy, he mused as he drove in the direction of the beach. Being the good guy, man, now that had been short-lived. At least he'd gotten to be treated with some respect for a brief time. Very brief.

Tom ran a hand through his hair, scolding himself. Enough. This wasn't about him. And for what had to be the thousandth time he told himself that he did the only thing he could think of doing under the circumstances.

_Please come back, Larkin. Please be whole, you and the little one inside you_.

He swallowed, tasting salt and something bitter at the back of his throat as he cut the cruiser's engine.

The sea, so vast, so overflowing with the secrets she'd kept from the beginning of time, lay before him just beyond the sand, beneath a cloudless, breathtaking east coast sky. Overheard, gulls flew, swooping down only when they spotted some morsel for breakfast left on the sand by the ebbing tide. In the distance he could hear the mechanical whir of a helicopter's blades, apparently the Air Force scouting the area in their routine searches after a devastating natural disaster.

Tom stood, his thumbs hooked into his utility belt. He sighed and looked out.

The sea offered nothing. No sign of Larkin being returned, no answers, nothing.

He rubbed his eyes. The Florida sun, always a scorcher, was powerful even at that hour, forcing him to draw his sunglasses from his pocket. Yet it was more than that.

Plain and simple, he was tired. It had been such a long, long night, and he was exhausted. He'd been feeling that way, he realized, for some time. Living his life as both a man, as a husband and father and law enforcer, and also as what he'd become years ago in the water, was proving more difficult with each passing day.

He was about to leave, actually turning, when he saw something out over the waves. Tom did a double take and froze in place.

Someone was out there. Swimming effortlessly, with the grace of an Olympic athlete. As the form drew closer, Tom drew in a breath, afraid to allow himself a grain of hope.

That was a woman out there. A dark-haired woman, her frame petite and slender.

"Oh—oh, Larkin," he whispered. Then he shouted, "_LARKIN_!"

The laughter that bubbled out of him was exuberant and rich. It was the laugh of a man who'd suddenly had years shaved off his age by the appearance of a miracle. Tom ran into the water, oblivious to the fact that he was once more soaking his white sheriff's uniform, splashing like a little kid on the first day of summer.

Larkin was alive. Alive, alive, alive! Alive and a hybrid, but come on—who the hell cares? The kids, even his Kira, had come to love Russell's sweet second wife, who seemed too gentle of spirit to be as tough a reporter as she was.

But then he stopped running in the water that reached halfway up his legs. Frowning, he slipped off his shades and stared in sheer disbelief.

That wasn't Larkin. He knew Larkin Groves, and that wasn't her.

And—his adrenaline raced with trepidation and, to his surprise, utter joy—he knew this woman, too. Knew her so, so well. The years had passed. Like him, she was older now. Still youthful, and now more beautiful than ever. Dressed in a white wetsuit, her dark hair wet and flaxen, she stirred in him a long-forgotten thrill from yesterday.

"No, it's not Larkin," she spoke, her tone playful. "Guess again."

Was this a ghost? Damn, how tired was he? Again he rubbed his eyes. Was he seeing things now, on top of everything?

"I'm someone you forgot all about," she said. "But now I'm back. Hello, Tom."

He couldn't move, so dumbstruck. His heart was pounding like the relentless thunder of the hurricane that had just passed. She had his face in her hands, and her mouth planted a red-hot kiss on his for the first time in over a decade.

There was no mistaking who this was. And this was no ghost. She was alive, as alive as he was. This was his first wife, the mother of his child, back from the dead, in warm flesh and blood. And he really was holding her in his strong, muscular arms.

"Hel-hello," Tom stammered, "Grace . . . "


	2. Chapter 2

Now it made sense: the water, the lights. Everything that had happened to him, though he'd never known it, had happened to Grace as well.

Except that as Tom stood, locked in the heat of a long kiss with the woman who'd been the greatest love of his life, he could tell she'd changed. There was an anger in her kiss that hadn't been there before. Or had just too much time passed between them? Too much life? Reluctantly, Tom ended the kiss, putting a little distance between them by pushing at her slim shoulders. Grace stared at him with a wounded expression in those murky green eyes of hers.

"All this time," he rasped, "you couldn't have come back to me sooner? To our daughter?"

"Would it have mattered? I was replaced anyway." Grace turned and stepped toward dry land. "My baby may not have replaced me—but you did, Tom Underlay."

"Whoa—wait a minute!" He caught her by the arm, shocked by the vehement way she shook free from his hold.

"Don't touch me," Grace ordered coldly. "The good doctor might have a problem with you doing that. And—what's her name? Mariel—she wouldn't like it if she knew how much you just enjoyed that kiss, either."

"I thought you were—gone, Grace," he protested. Tom couldn't bring himself to say the word _dead_.

"That's all right. Don't feel too guilty. I've been busy, too."

"I'm afraid to ask doing what."

"You shouldn't even have to ask, Tom. Seeing all the trouble you've caused me. You and that Russell Varon."

Moving slowly, all the joy he'd felt before swept away, he followed her out of the water. Tom understood what his first wife was saying, though he resisted accepting the truth. Yet burying his head in the sand and pretending wasn't the way he had ever lived his life. Especially not now, when there was so much at risk.

"You're—you're saying, Grace, that—"

She twirled around to face him. "I'm saying I'm in charge, Tom. Not Eli Szura. And certainly not you."

"Szura's dead."

"Yes, I know. You killed him."

"Yeah, well, somebody had to. And . . . you worked for him?"

"I'm sure you'd prefer that scenario. That I was deceived, that Eli coerced me. But, no. The truth is, Szura worked for me. All this time, I was the one pulling the strings. But you and that . . . " Grace closed in the space between them, saying through clenched teeth, "damn park ranger have been nothing but trouble to me. Now why don't you both just get out of my way? No one else will get hurt."

Tom was half out of his mind. He could barely believe what he was hearing, particularly out of those lips. Was this really the woman he'd loved once? His bride, the woman who'd given birth to his Kira?

As if reading his mind, Grace softened and asked, "Can I see her?"

"You haven't already? You've seen everything else." He couldn't restrain his own temper. "Mariel, Russell—how 'bout Dave? You read his blog every day, too?"

"Of course. I have it in my favorites on my laptop." Grace's words were etched with sarcasm, but she turned serious. "I want to see my daughter."

"Yeah, I'll think about it," he countered sternly.

"You'll—how dare you?"

"And you need to tell me everything you know about Larkin. Tell me what's happened to her. How soon she'll be back to us."

"My, you do like being the big, bad boss, don't you, baby?" She lifted her chin in defiance. "Let's try this again, Tom. See if you can get it through that hard head of yours. You are not calling the shots. I am. Got that? You want to know about the park ranger's pretty little wife? Well, _I'll_ think about it. And you think about letting me see my daughter. Get back to me when you think you can be reasonable. Okay, hon?"

"Grace, if you—"

Was he really doing that, grabbing her so roughly by her arms? But this wasn't the Grace that he'd married. She was cold and hard, like driftwood that had been washed up onto the shore by turbulent waves after a tempest. Still, he didn't want to be doing that. He wanted to be tender with her. He'd missed her more than words could express.

_But this isn't your Grace. And what is Mariel going to say about all this?_

"You don't want to do that, Tom," Grace said quietly, nodding toward something behind him. "Let go of me. Looks like you have company."

Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw the news crew hopping off a truck. He cussed under his breath and turned to Grace, who'd added artificial honey to her wide smile.

"Like I said, think about it and get back to me, sweetheart," she purred. "Gotta go. We'll be in touch. 'Kay, lover?"

Russell Varon wasn't drunk yet, but he was getting there.

Thad's Pub was one of the few businesses up and running that night, if only on a wing and a prayer. Russell had been by the place hundreds of times, but never inside. What need would there have been in the past for him to frequent the place? He was a family man. What hours weren't taken up with tending to his beloved Everglades were filled with his beautiful wife and great kids.

He _was_ a family man. Past tense. Like the part of him that had taken such pride in wearing his ranger's uniform, that chapter of his life had been slammed shut by a vicious hurricane. And, oh yeah—a messed-up kid with a gun.

But mostly . . . by Sheriff Tom Underlay. Russell had never hated anyone more than he hated Tom right at that moment.

He downed another shot of Jack Daniels and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The bartender stood at the other end of the bar, drying some glasses with a dishtowel and occasionally casting a wary glance Russell's way. He had that no-nonsense manner about him, and Russell could tell he'd refuse to serve him another drink.

Which was fine. He could handle that. Worse things had happened to him over the past few days. Being denied more whiskey was the least of his cares.

From his seat near the window he could look out and see the boulevard. The news crews' trucks—one of them from the station where Larkin had worked—were gone, as were the trucks from the American Red Cross that had dispensed bottled water and sandwiches to the townspeople. It would take some time for Homestead to recover from the devastation.

But would they ever recover from the danger festering right in their midst, the hybrids?

Sighing, he motioned to the bartender. "Can I get one more?" he asked.

"Nah, I don't think so, buddy," the balding barkeep said, shaking his head. "Looks to me like you've had enough."

"Yeah. Thought you'd say that."

It was best to go home anyway. Yet that left him with a dilemma: Where would he go? Mariel had taken the kids, and he was grateful for that. Except she had, obviously, taken them to her house. He wasn't ready to go to that place just yet. Not with the chance her new husband would be there. Russell couldn't promise he wouldn't beat the hell out the good sheriff and get himself tossed in jail.

Neither could he go home. _His_ home. That little place, so filled with memories. In his mind's eye he would see Larkin, coming to greet him at the door as she had so many times before, with her sweet smile and her even sweeter kisses. He fought off tears just as he hopped off the stool and heard someone approaching from behind.

"Hey, dude. Mariel said I'd find you here."

That was—who else? Dave Groves. The sight of his scruffy brother-in-law brought him some ounce of comfort. Despite his smile, though, Dave's face looked older than his years and the rims of his eyes were red. He'd been crying, grieving for his sister.

And there he was, coming to Russell's assistance. He gave Dave a warm embrace.

"I had nowhere else to go," he murmured.

"Aw, that's not true. And this, uh . . . " Dave nodded at the empty glass, grinning. "That's more my style, man, not yours. I know what you're going through, but you gotta be strong."

"I'm trying." What a lie that was. He wasn't trying at all. Russell pulled some bills from his pocket and laid them on the counter. They were promptly swept up by the bartender, who mumbled his thanks. "The Coast Guard hasn't called me. It's driving me crazy, all this waiting for a phone that doesn't ring."

"They're looking for her?" Dave's eyes shone with a flicker of hope.

"Well, I didn't mention she was taken to the sea by one of the hybrids." Bitterly, he added, "Hell, the _king_ of the hybrids."

"Listen, I'm not Underlay fan, either. Especially not now. The less I see that weirdo, the healthier he'll be." Seeing Russell weave as he walked, Dave guided him with a hand on his arm. "But we have other things to do besides dwell on what he did. And I'm gonna help you look for my sister. But you also need your job back."

"Ah, Dave. That's not gonna happen, man."

"Oh, no? This town's been through hell, Russell. A lot of things have changed. And you seriously need to work. This town needs you."

"I appreciate your cheerleading, but I'm not doing so hot right now." He bowed his head, his voice dropping to a painful near-whisper. "I can't tell you how bad I'm doing, Dave."

"You don't have to, buddy. I know." Dave regarded him with a brotherly kindness. "But you're gonna have to snap out of this. Be strong. Listen, in the morning I'm taking you out to the water. There's something you have to see."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Mariel Underlay turned after basting the chicken roasting in the oven to see Rose at the kitchen island. Her daughter looked even smaller tonight, like a lost, broken little bird. She was scanning the kitchen, a despondent expression shadowing her face.

"Looking for something, sweetie?" her mother asked.

"My Xbox game. The new one," Rose said.

"Maybe Jesse picked it up by accident. I saw it on a pile of your brother's games."

"Oh. Okay. I'll ask him."

Kira, who'd been standing in the doorway and had overheard the conversation, suggested, "I'd like to play, too. Want me to help you find it?"

Mariel smiled before reaching for a big, juicy tomato. Those were magic words to Rose, but then again, any and all attention from her big stepsister was better than gold to her.

"Okay," Rose agreed readily, and they both headed upstairs.

Mariel continued making the salad for dinner, slicing up the tomato and some scallions to toss onto the mixed greens. The house had fared well, coming through the hurricane with only some minor damage to the garage roof. The same couldn't be said of everyone's home in town, unfortunately. That wasn't taking into account the terrible loss of life, either.

But then, most of that couldn't be blamed on the hurricane. The fault fell mainly on something more sinister.

Something that had to do with Mariel, as well. With what she had become.

In frustration, she yanked her attention away from the water flowing from the sink's faucet. Normalcy. That was her number one priority. To create a sense of normalcy for the children, to help them cope with the days ahead. Because if Larkin never returned, the kids would never be the same. Neither, Mariel feared, would Rusell.

_No, don't you dare do this, dammit!_ she scolded herself, grabbing a napkin to dab away her tears.

Her children loved their stepmom. For that alone, Larkin had earned both Mariel's respect and affection. Friendship? Well, that was a tough one. Larkin perhaps had sensed something going on between her husband and his former wife, embers from the past that hadn't yet fully died. Mariel certainly couldn't blame the woman for keeping her at arm's length.

Yet it had to be said that Larkin had always put the children first. Children were smart, too. They knew whose love for them was real and whose was feigned, and her kids—Mariel lovingly included Kira in there—had never doubted Larkin's love for them.

_Isn't there anything else you could have done, Tom? Why is the water always the answer? To _everything

Those were questions that, though they burned in her mind, she couldn't just come out and ask her husband. Tom had enough on his plate and Lord knew he had to be going through hell.

Still . . . she stiffened, dwelling on what he'd done. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never understand her husband's reason for allowing her to become—how could she even describe it?

_Like him. You're like him. And now, if she's alive, so is Larkin._

The phone rang. Hastily, she wiped her hands on a dishrag and grabbed it. Seems like she and the phone were never far from each other now, and that's the way it should have been. At least until this crisis was over. If it could ever be over.

It was Dave Groves on the other line. Her heart skipped a hopeful beat.

"Hi, there. Anything?" she asked.

She hadn't even had to go into detail. He knew what she was asking about instinctively. His sigh was a heartbroken one, though he added an optimistic lilt to his voice.

"Maybe tomorrow, but not right now," he reported. "Just wanted to let you know I found Russell."

"Oh, thank you, Dave. He's okay?"

"He's fine. I tried grilling some burgers for us, but he hardly touched his dinner. I know my cookin's bad, but come on." He chuckled. "But anyhoo, he's here, safe and sound."

"Good. Maybe he'll do better after he gets some rest."

"Ah, I hope you're right. And how are the kids?"

Now what was _that_ about? Mariel had stepped out to the living room to straighten up and happened to look out through the windows. There, across the street, a car was parked beneath a lamppost. Looked like a Chevy Tahoe. Leaning against it was a woman, though Mariel couldn't see her face clearly. With her hands dug into the pockets of a light jacket, she was just staring in the direction of Mariel's home.

"Yo, Mariel? You there?"

She'd forgotten about Dave, so caught up in checking out the stranger across the street. It was probably nothing anyway. She was exhausted and her imagination was working overtime. Through the window she could see the woman bringing out what appeared to be a cell phone from her pocket.

"I'm here," she told Dave. "What did you ask me? I'm sorry. . . . "

"Uh, the kids. How—"

"Oh, the kids are fine, honey. Well, as fine as they can be, considering the circumstances, you know. Sorry I blitzed out on you there, Dave. It's been—oh—"

"Rough. I know, I know. No need to apologize. Listen, you take it easy, Mariel. I'll call you in the morning."

"Thanks, Dave. I'll talk to you then. Have a good night and tell Russell—tell him I said good night."

There was more that she would have told Russell, but nothing she'd wanted messengered through Dave or anyone else. Especially not Dave, though, Larkin's own brother.

She wasn't seeing things; the woman _was_ staring at her house. Mariel stood fully in the window, drawing back the curtains. She couldn't see the woman clearly and she didn't know what possessed her, yet after all she'd gone through she wasn't backing down.

Not this time.

"You'd better leave my kids alone," Mariel uttered, her voice a heated whisper. "Trust me, lady. I am through with being scared. Don't you even think of playing with me."

After a moment the figure—as if suddenly flustered—hopped back into the vehicle, the phone still at her ear. Mariel watched her pull away from the curb in a rush and take off down the street.

Lingering at the window, she saw another car pull up. This time it was the white cruiser marked SHERIFF, which slowed down and eased into the driveway beside her trusty old station wagon.

Coincidence? She sighed, shaking her head. Nothing with that man was ever a coincidence.

_He's your husband, _she reminded herself.

Instead of remaining there, she headed swiftly back into the kitchen. She needed to compose herself, to suppress the questions and the anxious feelings and the anger that threatened to assail her. And mostly, to get Russell off her mind. Russell Varon, the father of her children, whose arms had felt too much like home the last time she'd spent time in them, more so than her own husband's. It seemed that lately her thoughts had focused in so much on her ex, so much that her heart could barely withstand it.

Out in the living room, Tom bellowed out, "Honey—I'm home!"

The nerve of that—that blonde _witch!_ Staring her down like that, like some tough little high school cheerleader cruising for a fight, almost challenging her to come closer. For her information, she had no intention of getting any closer to that ugly compound she and Tom called a house. All Grace had wanted was a glimpse of her little girl, who'd grown into a young lady. Just one glimpse.

And perhaps . . . a good, hard look at that house. To discover its possible weak spots, if there were any. How she might rescue her Kira from her father and stepmother.

After securing the motorboat in its makeshift slip on the island, Grace stepped onto the beach, stalking toward the camp. Now that she'd gotten a good look at Mariel—_oh, excuse me, Dr. Underlay!_ she thought derisively—she concluded a few things.

Firstly, Mariel wasn't that pretty at all. She was attractive and a few years younger, all right. That much Grace granted her. But she wasn't that drop-dead gorgeous and she was pretty thin, not as shapely as she'd imagined. From what others had told her, she also had a sometimes turbulent relationship with Tom, and that served him right. So did her occasional amorous moments with her ex, which Tom may or may not have suspected.

Grace seethed as she slipped through the door, acknowledging with a somber nod those who looked up from their work to greet her.

She wasn't foolish herself, much as she tried: The woman _was_ beautiful. She realized that glumly, in spite of all her efforts to pacify herself. Mariel was more beautiful than she. And now Tom loved his new wife, not the one who'd been on that plane with him, the night they were both changed forever. But he'd forgotten all about the woman that he'd vowed to love forever. How she'd suffered when she'd heard about his wedding to this other one. She was yet to get over it, too.

"Grace, we've got some reports for you to review," one of her underlings said from behind her. "And now that Eli is gone—"

"Later!" she snipped, hurrying up the stairs.

Once in her office, she closed the door behind herself and leaned against it. She dropped her face into her hands, trying to catch her breath.

She was jealous. There was no denying that, no matter how hard she tried. She'd never been so jealous in her life. All that fire was directed at Dr. Underlay, which was crazy. By all rights, it should have been directed at her unfaithful husband. _He_ was the guilty party, not this foolish woman he'd seduced away from her husband.

Grace stepped to the small refrigerator. Maybe a glass of wine would calm her down a bit, enough to let her think. She poured herself a glass of Merlot, noting that the hand holding the bottle was trembling.

_I'll think about it._ That was what Tom had said when she'd told him she wanted to see Kira. Her first inclination had been to slap him, although she'd managed to control herself. Grace sipped her wine, watching a shooting star blaze across the sky through the window of her room, a large space that doubled as both her bedroom and office. With her wine she tried to swallow her fury, which rose at the mere thought of his arrogance, that coldness in his voice when he'd denied her the right to see her own daughter.

Did he dare talk like that to Mariel? She highly doubted it. Though, to be fair, his demeanor toward her when they were husband and wife had also been different. More respectful, so loving and affectionate. She nibbled on a fingernail, letting her gaze drift to a framed picture on the nightstand beside her bed.

They were both young in that shot. He was even more handsome now, a fact that aggravated the hell out of her. Young parents with a baby Kira between them. A real cutie, too, with her two top baby teeth exposed in her big smile. They'd been a family then. A loving little family.

But that was before everything changed. Before the lights. Back then, before they both became what they did, before their transformation in the water, Tom had been a man deeply in love. That was before there ever was a Mariel. And Grace had believed, quite stupidly, that he still would have returned to her after all was said and done. She composed herself, trying to come to terms with a truth she could no longer avoid.

That was just not going to happen. Tom was lost to her forever. But Kira? Kira would always be hers. And an idea was forming in her head. A few ideas, actually, on how she would get her daughter back.

A timid knock sounded at her door.

"I don't wish to be disturbed right now," she insisted hotly.

"But—but, Grace, you asked to be notified when—when—"

"Oh. That's different." She opened the door, forcing a smile for the young woman standing in the corridor. She reminded Grace of that other one. What her name again? Christina. Regrettably, Eli had had to dispose of her. She might have been useful, especially now that things were moving along nicely. "Thank you. I'll be in there in a minute."

She took her time and finished her wine. She appreciated its effect on her, calming her down. If she didn't think too much, if she got that man out of her mind, she'd be able to sleep. To be rested and alert was imperative if she was to fulfill her objectives. It wouldn't be an easy task; that much she knew. What she needed was to be centered, to concentrate. She had work to do.

The room was right down the hall, only a few doors away from her own. Grace found Dr. Maynard at the bedside, apparently checking the IV bottle and the monitors vigilantly keeping check of the patient's heart and other vitals. Who needed a hospital? She beamed appreciatively at the physician.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said. "Is it all right if . . . "

"Not for too long," he said, "but—well, I'll give you some privacy."

"Wonderful. Thanks."

True to his word, he promptly left the room. She stood at the bed rail, looking at their little patient.

The park ranger's wife struggled to open her eyes. She squinted up at Grace, her face pale. She had lost a lot of blood, but she was now slowly but surely regaining her strength. This Larkin was a fighter. Pretty, too. Grace wondered what sorcery that Mariel witch worked on men that even the park ranger's eyes strayed from this cute brunette pixie to the woman who'd thrown him away for another man.

"Larkin," Grace spoke her name. "I hear you're going to make it. That's good news!"

The young woman blinked, confused. One thin hand went protectively to the swell of her belly, which protruded under the white sheets.

"My baby," she whispered.

"Oh, your baby's fine, honey. Just fine." Grace reached for Larkin's other hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Oh." Larkin closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.

This one was an innocent. Grace held no resentment toward Larkin Groves; if anything, she gazed at her with compassion. Secretly, she wished Larkin had never been changed. Or perhaps _ruined _was a better word.

That made all three of them now, Grace mused. First her, then Mariel, and now Larkin. All changed by the lights and the water. No turning back for any of them, either.

Only the children, Larkin's brother and that Russell Varon were untouched. Because even the deputy, Sirk, the one who looked up at Tom with such undeserved admiration, was like the women and Tom—ruined. Like dead trees in a forest or a dried-up lake.

But she couldn't afford to dwell on all that now.

"Russell," Larkin said imploringly. "My husband . . . "

"Yes. Your husband. He's fine." Grace shrugged. "You'll see him as soon as it's feasible."

"As soon as—what does that mean?"

"_Shhh_. Just rest now, Larkin."

"But, but—who are you?"

The poor little thing was panicking. That wouldn't do. Grace would have to tell the others to keep a good eye on her, since in time Larkin would be stronger. Strong enough to run away. Before that happened, Grace needed to befriend her. Guide her. Convince her that she had a higher calling if she stayed, both she and her little one.

She would need to make Larkin her strongest ally, if possible.

Tom had his way of doing things. Grace knew that from the accounts told to her by Eli. He often fudged the truth, not surprisingly. She, on the other hand, wouldn't employ the same methods. The truth wasn't so terribly hard to work with. It was _how_ you told the truth that made the difference. And that would begin with her treatment of this young woman, respecting her enough to give her the truth.

"My name is Grace," she replied. "Grace . . . Underlay."

At that, Larkin's eyes widened. In response to the fear, Grace patted her arm tenderly.

"Now, now. Don't be afraid. I'm here to help you, Larkin. I'm hoping we'll be friends, you and I." Grace offered her a kindly smile and a little wink. "And I hope that maybe you'll help me. . . . "


	4. Chapter 4

**AFTER THE STORM**

**Chapter Four**

The cave wasn't far from the lagoon, and with the high tide it was difficult to see what was concealed beneath the water's surface. Difficult, but not impossible.

Russell Varon's mouth drew into a taut line as he observed the scene from the boat. He remembered the day in the lagoon when he'd seen the horrendous sight of those bodies in the water. Hatching? Transforming? Whatever they were doing, it had meant trouble.

There were even more of them now. So this was where some of those who'd been cast into the sea the night of the hurricane had gone. Where were the others? Scattered throughout the area? With a queasiness stirring in his stomach, Russell recognized some of the bloated faces. They were people—men, women, even children—that he'd witnessed being pushed into the water that night.

Dave, who had stood beside him quietly letting Russell take it all in, nodded at him. A look of sheer determination darkened his face.

"See why you need your job back?" he asked Russell finally. "Somebody has to do something. I don't understand it, though. I really thought this died with Szura."

Russell started up the motor again, steering them out of there before they could be discovered.

"Somebody else is running the show now," he said, more to himself.

"Yeah, somebody . . . whose initials are T.U.," Dave huffed in disgust. "Or, as I like to affectionately call him, Sheriff Truly Underhanded."

That remark gave Russell the first good laugh he'd had since Larkin had been gone. Laughter felt good, even strengthening.

And was it his imagination, or had Dave become more incensed with Tom after a night's rest, while Russell himself had gained some clarify? That didn't mean he was prepared to make amends with Tom, nor did he trust the man. Plain and simple, he faulted Mariel's husband with what had happened to Larkin, but there was a conviction, a determination that hadn't been there while grief was consuming him.

Except grief still had the upper hand. He wasn't operating on all cylinders yet, not even close. But that little boy he'd been, the one who'd arrived on U.S. soil from Cuba on a raft, the one who'd had to grow up hard, that survivor in him had risen up from the ashes.

Russell Varon was alert now. And stronger. And he wasn't backing down, not to anybody, human or hybrid.

"Let's not assume that Tom's the one behind this," he said.

"Aw, c'mon, Russell. Szura's dead. Tom's the likely second-devil-in-command who just got promoted."

"Maybe. Believe me, you won't find any sympathy for him from me. But we need to be sure." He was pensive for a moment. "How dangerous would it be to get out to the island for a look?"

"Just you and me? _Very_ dangerous, dude."

"Well . . . listen, Dave, if Larkin is—if she's—she's still with us, then she's on that island."

The patient had been brought into Emergency earlier in the day. Surgery had been grueling, the emotional toll on Dr. Mariel Underlay even higher because her steady hands had been working on an eight-year-old. The boy had been caught in the crossfire at the wharf, before the real military had stepped in and ended the hybrids' madness.

By some miracle, Mariel and her team had managed to save the child's arm. That knowledge and brought her some comfort. The boy was in for some tough times, hours and hours of rehabilitation with a physical therapist, but at least he would regain the use of that limb. Hard to believe, but good things did still happen.

She stepped off the elevator, offering a new nurse a nod and a smile. First a quick stop at her office, and then she was headed straight home. The kids had already eaten, thanks to Kira, who'd been thoughtful enough to whip up a simple and easy meal. Mariel hadn't had time to eat and by now, the only thing she yearned for was a good, long soak in the tub and then bed.

But when she returned to her office she knew that bath would have to wait a bit longer. Russell was there, waiting for her right outside the door.

One thing that made her uneasy: He looked better than he had the last time she'd seen him. An unexpected—and unwelcome at that—current of electricity went through her when she saw him. Dressed in jeans and a black, short-sleeved shirt, he brought one word into her mind as if it were made of neon.

_Sexy._

Uh, no, that would certainly _not_ do. First of all, she was married to Tom. Secondly, Russell was grieving for Larkin. Though the smile on his face was brave and heartfelt, he was still in deep turmoil. Still, that smile was unintentionally alluring.

"Is there good news?" she wanted to know.

"Not the kind I wish I had," he confessed. "But, yeah. Some good news."

"What's that?"

"I got my job back today."

Mariel turned to him, smiling broadly. "Russell, that's wonderful!"

"Yeah. I was on my way to see the chief, but before I even got there, he called me. He reminded me that this was only supposed to be an administrative leave anyway—"

"And he also knows you're the best he's got and the Park Service needs you." She didn't contain her pride in him. "I'm glad. You need to get back to work."

"Yeah, I sure do."

"Is that what brought you here to see me?"

"Um, no. Got a few minutes?"

_Not really,_ she thought, opening the door to her office and leading the way in. _But I can never turn you away. Though if I was smart, I would._

Mariel was reminded of that old Chicago song, the one that went something like: _You're a hard habit to break. _That was her first husband, Russell Varon, to a "T". Much to the slow detriment of her marriage sometimes.

"I know this is a sensitive topic," he began. "But . . . what is Tom doing to find Larkin?"

"What's he doing?" Mariel repeated. "Russell, first of all, Tom's working with a skeleton crew, more or less. I thought you knew that. You know what happened before the storm. Those people got into his department like they got into yours."

"I know. But he is—well, I don't want to pull any punches here. Tom is on the right side this time, on _our_ side, I mean . . . isn't he?"

She heaved a sigh and leaned back against the edge of her desk. "Russell, look, I know you're going through a hard time right now. And I know you and Tom—well, you two have always had a strained relationship."

"That's putting it mildly. He didn't exactly start off on the right foot with me. Kinda hard to trust a man who steals your wife and wrecks your home."

Not that again. She dropped her forehead into her hand. After hours of surgery, she didn't need this. Not at all. Besides which, her head was now pounding from the stress. Yet she gathered every ounce of compassion in her heart for Russell and tried to maneuver through a conversation that was a veritable minefield.

"Look, you need to forget the past," she told him bluntly. "Find Larkin. That's what matters."

"That's it, though. He wrecked my first marriage. Now it's like he took Larkin away, too." Russell closed in the space between them. His espresso-colored eyes flashed with hurt and something dangerous. "I want to make sure that I'm mistaken in that assumption, Mariel. That your husband isn't revving up to pick up where Szura left off."

"Russell, I know there's always going to be friction between you and Tom. But he's not your enemy. He's—I think he did what he thought was best for Larkin. Tom always does what he thinks is best."

"You don't totally believe that, though, do you, Mariel? When it comes to what happened to Larkin, with him taking her to the water, you're not one-hundred-percent sure. I get that feeling just from looking at you."

She stared back at him, afraid he could hear her heart pounding against her chest like tribal drums. Being that close to Russell, so close to his muscular body, to his mouth, was actually intoxicating.

God, the man could kiss. When he used to kiss her as her husband, and even more recently in the stolen, forbidden kisses they'd shared, he put such emotion and sensuality into it. Kissing him alone was arousing, leading to thoughts of being with him somewhere dark and quiet, with her body pressed tightly against his, the only sounds being of their breathing and their heartbeats.

She shook her head, trying to bring herself to her senses.

"Yes, I do believe that," she insisted, hoping it sounded convincing. "Russell, Tom would never do anything to hurt Larkin."

"No. Unless he was thinking with that . . . other part of himself. That ugly part that doesn't have any part in this world." Russell edged even closer, shaking his head. "I never understand that, Mariel. He had already changed when you met him. What was it you saw in him that made you forget about me and go to him? What did you see in him that killed your love for me?"

_My love for you has never died._ Wherever that thought had come from, Mariel fought to suppress it, like she was battling to suppress the desire to kiss him on that tempting mouth of his.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Mariel straightened up, shocked to hear that voice. She was shaken by it and wondering how deeply under Russell's spell she'd been that she'd never even heard the door to her office open.

There stood Tom, dressed in his white shirt and brown trousers, his sheriff's uniform. He paused to give Deputy Lewis Sirk a gentle nudge out the door.

"Give us a minute, okay, son?" he said. As soon as he turned around he gave Russell a look that could have frozen the ocean into glaciers. "I asked you a question. I expect an answer."

"No, Tom, don't be silly. You're not interrupting anything," Russell flippantly replied.

Mariel didn't like that, the dripping venom behind her former husband's smirk. He went on, "I got my job back."

"Oh, yeah. I know." Tom shrugged. "I knew about it this afternoon."

"You did?"

"Yeah. FYI: I pulled some strings with the mayor's office for you."

"You did?" Russell couldn't hide his look of frustration in time. Mariel looked away, realizing he was embarrassed.

That was a crush to his pride, especially in light of what had just been discussed.

"Yeah, Russell, this town needs you. And hey, you know—" Tom gave him a too-sharp slap on the back. "We need to keep you busy. Can't have too much time on your hands. That's not good for . . . a worried husband."

Mariel thought of standing between them before the men came to blows, right there in the hospital. That was the thing about Tom and Russell: Tom, without even raising his voice, with a smile as smooth as brandy, could throw down that gauntlet in a way that left Russell a walking emotional three-alarm fire.

"I'm passing by the house, if that's all right," Russell said then. "I need to see my kids."

Tom waited until he'd stepped out of the office and closed the door behind himself to demand, "Should I come home now, or do you think your ex-husband can control himself around you?"

"Oh, I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer, Tom," Mariel retorted. "I'm tired. I've been in surgery for hours. I don't need any of your drama."

He bristled. "I passed by specifically because Lewis and I were driving by. I wanted to see how you're doing. I guess I shouldn't have bothered you with my drama.'"

Mariel's first inclination was to follow him out the door, which Tom closed more brusquely than necessary. But she remained put, calming herself, not fully recovered from being so close to another of Russell's kisses.

She found it necessary, as she often did after such an experience with him, to remind herself that she was a wife, a mother, and a professional . . . not some teenaged girl with a fluttery heart that Russell Varon still seemed quite capable of reducing her to.

_(A note to PolishPrincess80: Thank you so much for your kind words! And yes, you're right--I'm trying to work in elements into AFTER THE STORM that, according to rumors, would have been part of a second season for Invasion, as well as trying to let our beloved characters lead the rest of the way. Hope you enjoy it!)_


	5. Chapter 5

AFTER THE STORM

CHAPTER FIVE

_Pictures, at first. Just pictures, flashing by like a slideshow. In them, Grace was young. Her hair was longer, in that feathery style she wore back in the late 70s. Tom was carrying her playfully over the threshold of their first apartment. Not the night of their wedding, but another night. Was this a celebration of some sort? Felt like it._

_And when was that? Before Kira was born, when they were newlyweds. Grace was in a flowing skirt and that colorful top, the one with the sleeves that often fell to reveal one soft shoulder._

"_Major Underlay," she was saying, tipping a champagne glass to her mouth. "I like how that sounds."_

_A bottle of champagne in their bedroom. Grace now in that sexy black negligee he remembered. Him in his briefs, clutching her by the waist and falling together with her onto the bed, both of them laughing. The glass tumbled from her hand onto the quilted comforter of their bed and she laughed. He was kissing her face, her neck, the swell of her breasts._

"_Oh, look—you made me spill it!" She pouted like a kid._

"_That's okay. Just champagne. It'll wash out." He moaned slightly and kissed her again, deeper and harder. "And if it doesn't, who cares?"_

"_You're such a rebel." She giggled, then turned to gaze at him. "There'll never be anyone for me but you, Tom. You know that?"_

"_Better not be," he teased in a mock-stern way. "There's never going to be any woman for me but you, either, baby. You know how much I love you."_

_That kiss—it felt so real. A spiral heat rose in him, the heat of arousal. Taking her by the waist, he rolled her on top of him, his hands cupping around her bottom. He was going to make love to her, get inside her and pleasure them both, then—_

"Tom? You getting up, hon?"

That was Mariel's voice literally tearing him out of that dream. He blinked twice, turning onto his side with his arm curled around his pillow. She stood at the mirror, putting on her earrings, fully dressed. Sweetly she grinned at him, their recent argument forgotten. At least for now.

"Have to go to work," she reminded him. "I have a meeting at the hospital. I have to get there a bit earlier than usual."

"Okay. I can't afford to sleep all day, either."

"Oh, I don't know. We need a day like that. One day, huh? Just to sleep all day."

He kicked off the sheets and swung his feet onto the floor. "Don't tempt me."

"Ah, we're both working too hard. Long hours." She brushed her blond tresses, looking more rested and refreshed than he felt right then.

_Mariel, Mariel. Why couldn't you be Grace right now?_

Tom swallowed his impatience with himself at that thought, which had practically smacked him in the face out of nowhere.

"You home at the regular time for dinner tonight?" he asked.

"Hopefully. Who knows these days? But I have faith things will get back to normal soon."

"If not, I'll take us out to eat. How's that?"

"Yes! A night off. I'll take it!" Again laughing, her mood upbeat, Mariel kissed him. "I'll see you later, honey."

"Okay. I'll see you, baby."

In minutes Tom was in the shower, hastily adjusting the faucet to warm up the shower's spray of cold water striking his body like tiny ice pellets. It was only natural that he would dream of Grace; she'd been in his thoughts constantly. Too much, so that he was feeling uneasy and guilty, especially when the thoughts were taking on a sexual nature.

Mariel was his wife now, not Grace. He couldn't lose sight of that, not even for a moment. Besides, Grace wasn't the woman she once was. Regardless, one thing held true, and that was the one thing that chagrined and saddened him, the discovery he'd made since seeing her again that he couldn't deny.

He was still in love with his wife. His _first _wife. He didn't dare admit that, either to himself or anyone else. Yet that woman still owned a good chunk of his heart. She could still haunt his thoughts and his dreams. She could still make him want her, in that sensual and hungry way that a man desires a woman. Even now he needed her emotionally and physically, with every part of his being.

And yet . . . he still loved Mariel, too. How could that be?

Sighing, he turned off the shower and reached for a towel. There was a slew of things that had to be done that day, including a town meeting presided over by the mayor. And of course, now that he was reinstated in his old position with the park service, Russell could surely be counted on to be his usual pain-in-the-butt self, and oh yeah, that pain was typically directed at Tom's butt. There was administrative-type work awaiting him as well, most prominently the hiring of qualified men and women to fill the posts left by the deputies who'd become hybrids.

He couldn't be indulging in romantic thoughts about his first wife. Tom knew he had to numb himself to the feelings awakened in him for her. The desire, the yearning. Even a sadness that went to the deepest core of his heart, because he understood the truth, that Grace could never be his again.

Rosie and Jesse were with their father for a few days. However, Kira was home, so he headed down the hallway to her room to say goodbye as he always did before heading out to work.

"Come in," his daughter called in response to his light rap against her door.

School was in session, if only for half day sessions for now, but it was a step in the right direction to getting the community back on track. Kira had always been thin, like many teenaged girls these days, though the days following the most recent hurricane seemed to have taken their toll in that area. In her jeans and a tank top, she looked so delicate that it made him frown at her with fatherly concern. Like her stepmother, she stood at her dresser mirror, brushing her hair into a ponytail.

"Coming straight home after school?" Tom wanted to know.

"Not really. I was thinking of meeting some friends afterwards. Just hanging out and stuff."

"Okay. That's good. Just make sure you check in with me or your stepmother, all right? I need to know where you are at all times, Kira."

His gaze fell on the framed photo she lovingly kept on her dresser of her parents on their wedding day. Feeling a tug at his heart, he glumly jammed his thumbs into his duty belt and cleared his throat.

"Where would I go off to, Dad?" she asked.

"I—I know. It's just not safe out there yet. Humor your old father, okay?"

Smiling, she reached up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. "You're not old, Daddy. And I'll be careful. I hope you find Larkin today."

"Me, too, baby."

"I had a bad dream about her last night. Just . . . made me feel like she's alive and she's in danger."

"Just a dream, baby. Doesn't mean anything. A lot of dreams floating around lately, I guess."

Not appearing convinced, Kira nodded. "Won't it be easier now? I mean, that guy's dead, right? The one who was their leader?"

"Yeah, he's dead. I don't know if you could say it'll be easier—"

"But without a leader, it shouldn't be too hard to take them down. Right, Dad?"

"I would think so, baby. I don't know. You let me worry about that, okay? You worry about getting home safe." He kissed her forehead. "Remember now, check in. Mariel and I will worry if you don't. And have fun with your friends today."

"Sure will."

Kira wasn't really mad at her father, though she conceded that she was entitled to a secret or two of her own. Beginning with the first one: She had no intentions of meeting with friends from school that afternoon. No—she had better plans than that.

The sunlight fell on the lagoon, making its surface glisten as if there were a million silver stars dancing on the water. From behind her there came a noise, something stirring in the brush. She glanced back, unworried. Probably nothing more than a small animal scrounging around for food, anyway.

Something wasn't right with her father. She knew that like she knew she wouldn't be waiting by that lagoon for too much longer. What could have been troubling him?

Maybe he was just under so much stress. Her father always insisted on presenting himself as a man made of steel and rock, able, ready and willing to take care of himself and everyone he loved, with enough strength, both physical and mental, left over to take care of the whole town, too. She worried about him sometimes. He was certainly healthy, but it was a wonder he hadn't worked himself straight into the hospital many times over.

Another sound—but this one sent a megawatt smile onto her face. A car's engine, the mechanical growl growing louder as it drew closer, coming through a clearing in the thicket. The familiar sight of a cruiser sent her half running, half skipping to it with an excited little hop in her step. From out of the vehicle stepped the reason for all that happiness and rush of adrenaline—handsome Deputy Lewis Sirk.

_Her _Lewis.

"Kira, this wasn't my choice for a meeting place," he began. "Especially not with you here all by yours—"

Her kiss brought a sweet halt to his reprimand. His resolve was no match for that kiss, either. Lewis gave into it, drawing her closer with his hand on her waist. Then he smiled down at her. The scars were still visible on his face from the beating he'd endured from those derelict kids, but he was healing. Faster, Kira noted, than another man with his injuries would have.

"We can't stay here," he said.

"I know. I just wanted to see you again. To hold you, Lewis." She licked her lips, looking expectantly up at him. "Did you mean that? That you would wait for me forever? Or was that . . . you know. Just something you said because we were both going through that awful time."

"No, I meant it." He kissed her again, caressing her mouth with his. "You know how I feel about you. Baby, I love you so much."

"I love you, too."

"And hey—we won't have to wait too long, either, Kira. Look, I can't stay long and I'm taking you back with me, but I want you to know that . . . well, I've been praying about you and me."

Was that good? Or cause for alarm? Kira knew how seriously Lewis took his faith. With him, that was nothing short of sincere devotion. She took a deep breath. "You have?"

"Yes. And I have a peace that this is right. I've talked to God and I've talked to your father—"

"Okay, well, God's the easy one."

Lewis laughed. "Your dad asks only that you finish school. And I agree with him. That's _college,_ Kira, not high school. Okay? Doesn't mean we can't see each other, because we will. And I agree also with him about—"

A hissing noise filled the air only seconds before Kira felt a sharp pain in her arm. Her mouth opened in an "O," no sound at first coming out. Yelping, she reached out and touched what looked like a dart protruding from her arm. The intense pain from the tip having broken through her skin made her wince and her eyes well up with tears.

"Kira—oh, Kira, let's get you—"

The surprise on Lewis' face turned to shock as another sound, identical to the first, broke through the peace and solitude of those woods. Another dart, this one breaking through Lewis' pantsleg. He wobbled before catching himself against a tree and straightening up as best he could.

"What's going on?" Kira shouted.

"I don't know! The car—Kira, get in the car!"

But there was no time. Real fear shot through her as she wondered what those darts had carried into their bloodstream. Poison? Why, why _why_? Were they being murdered? Was she going to die there, with Lewis beside her?

Whatever it was, neither of them could stand on their feet much longer. They held onto each other, collapsing against the side of the cruiser limply. Her father's words, that plea for her to return home safely, came back to her with an unnerving sadness as she realized a terrible fact.

_I'm never coming home again._

Casting one last glance behind her, she saw faces darkened by the shadows, hiding there in the bushes. Seven, eight, nine faces—how many exactly? It was hard to tell with her eyes beginning to blur. They were faces she recognized; two of them belonged to former deputies in her dad's department, and one of them was a former classmate of hers.

That was all Kira saw before her eyes closed and she slipped into a thick, silent black pit.


	6. Chapter 6

**AFTER THE STORM**

**CHAPTER 6**

The word _suspicious_ didn't even come close to describing the scene.

The cruiser marked SHERIFF was unlocked and unattended, partially shaded by the nearby trees, partially basking in the late-afternoon sun. The keys were still in the ignition. There was a half empty cup of coffee, now cold, left in the cupholder. It was as if the driver had left the vehicle briefly, with every intention of returning, but something had happened to prevent him from doing so.

Now if that wasn't a sign of trouble, Sheriff Tom Underlay didn't know what was. Especially when one considered that was the same vehicle driven away from his office earlier that morning by his most trusted deputy, a young man who was more like a son to him than a subordinate, Lewis Sirk.

Tom shifted his weight from one foot to the other, walking slowly and deliberately as he inspected the area immediately surrounding the abandoned cruiser.

"Lewis, who'd you come out here to meet?" Tom asked under his breath.

"What's that, sir?"

Turning at the waist, he squinted through his sunglasses at the female deputy, Leticia Maldonado, who peeked out at him from the vehicle while searching it. It was she who had been patrolling the area and first noticed the cruiser.

"Nothing. Talking to myself," he replied. "Turn up anything?

"Nothing, sir. Sorry to say."

"Hmmm." Absently, he scratched his chin and looked around.

No sign of foul play. No sign of anyone else being around. Except . . .

He stepped closer to the water, where the ground was more pliant. Footprints—small ones. Like those of a child . . . or a small female. Crouching down, he touched one pensively. Then he glared out over the lagoon as a mixture of fear and indignation rose in him. All of this didn't have to mean what he suspected. Those footprints could have belonged to any kid or teenager out there for an afternoon dip. There was nothing at all strange about that.

Except the abandoned vehicle—and no Lewis in sight—_did_ make it strange. Not just strange, but ominous.

Tom drew his cell phone from its case, hitting the speed dial for Kira's cell. After only one ring he sighed, hearing himself being directed straight to the voicemail feature. A few bars of a song—what was that band Kira listened to? Coheed and somebody—played before her familiar playful voice urged, "Ooops! Missed me! Oh, well. You know what to do!"

He shook his head. "Yeah, I know what to do, all right, young lady. Apparently, you don't, because you haven't checked in with me or Mariel. Call me as soon as you get this message. Please, baby."

The anger in him faded, an anger that wasn't directed at his precious daughter. His fear for her safety grew stronger, along with a very bad feeling. Knowing it was futile, he pulled out his radio and tried again anyway.

"Lewis? Lewis, if you can hear me, you have to contact me. Lewis? Lewis?"

He glanced back at Deputy Maldonado and rose, prepared to tell her to drive the vehicle back to the station. They were through there and he'd be needing Maldonado—and all resources available to him—for other matters.

As for this situation, he was determined to go it alone.

Sometimes he heard the sound again, that harrowing, monstrous sound. The sound of an explosion, perhaps the worst and most frightening sound in the world. Mercifully, he didn't hear it as often as he once had, back when he was a young soldier. Now when he heard it, it was usually in a nightmare. The face of the suicide bomber came back to him seconds before he detonated the bomb strapped to his body. Right then, the whole world seemed to shatter into a million pieces.

And then Lewis would see his friend, another Marine like himself. His name was Josh. Great guy, a loyal friend with a good sense of humor, hailing from Alabama. Josh had loved a girl back home named Susan. Actually, now that Lewis recalled, Susan was Josh's high school sweetheart. He was planning on surprising her with an engagement ring when his tour in Iraq was done. Lewis was to have been his best man.

But then that bomb brought a heartless end to those plans.

Lewis was carted away on a stretcher by his fellow leathernecks. There was so much blood, he remembered. Blood soaking through his uniform, a deathly crimson. He couldn't feel his arm and kept telling the other guys that. He couldn't understand the crestfallen expression on their soot-covered faces. Then he had realized his arm was gone. Nothing left of it but torn cartilage, bone, and some badly mangled flesh. He began to scream with wild, uncontrollable agony, just screamed and screamed and screamed.

But Josh was silenced forever.

That afternoon, Lewis awakened from the nightmare with a start. He found himself gratefully thousands of miles away from that deadly day on foreign soil, but no better, since now he was in a place he didn't recognize. And—what was this? He was on a bed, still dressed in his deputy uniform, and his only hand was tied securely to the bedpost.

But why? He was groggy and his head felt like it weighed a ton. It felt like a hangover, though he hadn't had a drink in so long. Lewis didn't care for drinking; it didn't even have to do with his faith, he just plain didn't like the taste of liquor that much. Then it dawned on him: the darts, the lagoon, the faces with eyes that vacantly stared back at him and—

_Kira. His_ Kira. Where was she?

His breathing came in fast, desperate spurts. There was no décor in that flat, mirthless room. No pictures on the walls, which were painted a dull green. No furniture other than the bed and a simple wooden chair set in a corner. One window with no blinds or curtains, and in that reclining position all he could see was the sun's rays blinking through the branches of a tree and a blue canopy of Florida sky with bands of red.

"Kira!" he shouted. "_Ki-ra!_ Oh, God, Kira—answer me! Where are you?"

No response.

Fiercely, Lewis tugged on the rope constraining his hand. Its fibers bit into his skin, but he barely noticed the pain.

"_KIRA!"_ He shouted so hard, he strained his throat.

The door to the room opened. As he watched, three people entered the room, their pace disturbingly leisurely. A middle-aged man in a pastel blue, short-sleeved shirt, followed by a chubby woman considerably younger, with her hair in a long blond braid. The third person, an attractive and slender brunette in her forties, was staring at him with sheer fascination.

"Kira—where is she?" Lewis demanded.

"She's here, Lewis. She's fine," the man replied.

"Where's 'here'? And if she's fine, then I want to see her. I want to know she's all right, that nothing's happened to her."

"No one's going to harm Kira," the brunette said in a strangely reassuring manner. "She's perfectly safe, Lewis. And so are you."

In frustration he looked away from her, but then drank her in. Why did there seem to be something vaguely familiar about this woman? He couldn't place her face, yet there was something he recognized in her eyes, in the shape of her mouth, even in the way she carried herself.

He asked, "How do you know my name?"

"Well, you're one of us," the blonde explained. "Of course we know who you are."

"_I am _not_ one of you!"_

The brunette shook her head. "Oh, now, Lewis. Would that really be such a horrid thing? To count yourself as one of us?"

"You tell me, ma'am. You drugged me and Kira and you kidnapped us. You have me tied to this bed like you're afraid I'll make a run for it. We don't even know what you're going to do to us." His voice cracked slightly on that last part.

"Relax, Deputy Sirk." The older woman ventured closer to his bedside. He refused to return her smile. "No one will hurt you—"

"I don't care what you do with me. Do whatever you want with me. But Kira . . . " He swallowed hard, his voice too strong to be a plea, "Don't hurt her. Let her go."

It was as if the woman couldn't tear her gaze away from him. Finally she did, motioning to the others to follow her as she left the room. Violently, Lewis struggled with the rope and thrashed around on the bed. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples from both the lack of air conditioning in the room and his inability to remain still.

"_Don't hurt her! Don't hurt my Kira!"_

Dr. Maynard shut the door behind them, though Lewis' frantic cries could still be heard all the way down the corridor.

"He's a spirited one, I'll give him that," the doctor said with a trace of admiration.

"I think anyone who would dare to harm my daughter would only do so over his dead body," Grace said. Then she added, "I'm charging you both with the responsibility of keeping an eye on Deputy Sirk. No one—and I mean _no one_—is to harm a hair on that young man's head. Understood? They hurt him, they're going to have to deal with me."

"He'll be safe, Mrs. Underlay," the blonde vowed.

"Good. I'll be in my office. And then I'm going to see my daughter."

Grace Underlay couldn't believe how good it felt to be able to say those words: _I'm going to see my daughter._ The joy was so immense, so magnificent, that it made her feel more alive than she'd felt in more years than she cared to remember.

Joy—and triumph, too. Had she earned the right to gloat a little? She _knew_ she would find a way to reunite with Kira. If that house didn't yield a possibility for her to do so, she knew she could count on heroic young Deputy Sirk to lead her straight to her baby. She had to admit that was adorable: Her daughter had a boyfriend. A few years older than her, which at first hadn't sat well with Grace, but in all she'd been able to learn about Lewis Sirk, she found she had no choice but to agree with Kira's father, if only in that area. It also saddened her, though, because it served as a reminder that Kira was a young lady and Grace had missed so much of her life.

Kira was resting now, a bit groggier than Lewis from the sedative because she was physically smaller. That was another thing. Wasn't her former husband's wife feeding Kira, stepdaughter or not? Or was cooking for a family too menial a task for the great and important Doctor Mariel Underlay?

_Hmmph._ Another reason to dislike that distasteful, cold fish of a woman. And what was Tom thinking, permitting that woman to neglect their daughter? Both of them were crazy, both he and Mariel.

Grace sat herself down at her desk, where she needed to tend to some things as well as prepare herself emotionally before the reunion she'd looked forward to with all of her heart.

"_Lewis? Lewis, if you can hear me . . . "_

She dropped her pen, her eyebrows arching. The radio taken from Deputy Sirk's person during transporting both him and Kira to the remote key now sat on the edge of her desk. That was Tom's voice coming through the speaker.

" _. . . you have to contact me. Lewis? Lewis?"_

Grace giggled mischievously. Hopefully, this would teach Tom a lesson. The next time she said she wanted to see her daughter, maybe he wouldn't be so stubborn about it.

Now . . . what action did this call for, she wondered? Should she respond to his call? That'd be kinda cute, huh? Oh—just imagine the look on that man's face when he heard not his faithful little buddy but _her_, his not-so-forgotten ex-wife. His ex-wife, teasing him. Taunting him.

Or should she let the call go? Let him stew?

Ah, decisions, decisions.

Ultimately, it came down to time. Her schedule was just so busy. She had no time for Tom. Too bad, really. Now, had he played by her rules, had he respected her as Kira's mother, of course she would have cooperated with him. None of this would've necessary. This whole kidnapping thing, that was _his_ fault.

So a little suffering on his part was definitely in order. She sat back, smiling, completely vindicated.

A light rap on the door caught her attention. When she gave her permission to enter, the blonde—whose name was Anita—appeared in the doorway.

"Mrs. Underlay, we're having a little problem," the young woman announced. "I'm afraid it requires your immediate attention."

Suddenly apprehensive, Grace asked, "Is it my daughter?"

"Oh, no, no. I didn't mean to scare you. It's Larkin. She's—well, she's going into labor."

Grace sighed. "Very well. I'm coming."

A woman's work is never done. How true that old adage was, she thought, as she left the office and proceeded down the corridor.


	7. Chapter 7

**AFTER THE STORM**

**CHAPTER 7**

_It's not over, kiddos. Not by a long shot. Tell you the truth? The war just started and IT IS ON._

_Anybody who, after all that's gone down, can look me in the eye and say, "Groves, we are alone in this universe," is one seriously delusional dude. Either that or they so desperately need to stop smokin' their brain cells to a crisp._

_Another thing: Now it's personal. For me, anyway. I have a dog in this fight, you might say. Or to put it more aptly, I may have lost the only real family I have in this world._

_But I won't give up. I'll find her. And I will only go down fighting. I will take any hybrid, regardless of who they are or what position they hold, who tries to stop me down to hell with me._

Dave Groves sat back in his chair, reviewing the latest entry to his blog again before publishing it for every eye in the internet world to see. Was it too much? Was he being overly emotional? Did he really want to lay it all out there, show his hand?

Or did he want to wear that bit of information much closer to the vest?

Cussing under his breath, he banged on his delete button, nearly popping it off the keyboard. That was the third attempt at that blog entry that night; the third time he'd gotten it wrong. As much as he wanted to come off as strong and invincible, he couldn't do it. It was unwise to send his thoughts out over his blog when he was stressing, and he was stressing like crazy now.

In a nutshell, he was grieving for Larkin. That wasn't news to him, how much he'd always loved his sister. She was more than family to him. Larkin had been a trusted and loyal friend. His sister had stuck by him through times that his so-called friends had left him stranded.

Even if he didn't make himself sound like a total whack job on the blog, he couldn't afford to put her in jeopardy. Once the words were out there, anyone (or anything) could read them. God knew he would never forgive himself for that. And he really, really, really needed a drink right about now.

Instead he grabbed a Coke from the fridge and stepped outside. Fresh air? _Ha._ That air was heavy with brutal Floridian heat and humidity, with the fragrances of the trees and the rain that had fallen over an hour ago.

The Coke tasted better than ever, probably because of the heat and his parched throat. He looked out over the property, which only reminded him of the times he'd seen his sister pull up in the Jeep. The only one pulling up right at that moment was Russell, who was coming home later those days from work. Not that Dave blamed him; working late had to be better than being in that house without Larkin. Having the kids around was helping him, though. Over the past couple of nights Jesse and Rose had been home with them, and he'd just checked in on the kids himself.

Russell waved to him, looking weary and doleful, and Dave waved back, watching him climb the porch steps and disappear behind the screen door. Maybe all they both needed was a good night's sleep. But how to sleep when so many questions kept them awake, and for Dave the loudest questions blaring in his head were, _Are you still alive? Will you ever come back to us?_

And then . . . he saw her. At first he thought it was his imagination. It sure wasn't his drink; he hadn't spiked the cola with anything. His heart did somersaults in his chest and he blinked a few times, trying to make sure that what he was seeing wasn't a trick of the light.

That was no illusion. That _was_ a woman. A dark-haired woman, making her way through the thicket. And if he wasn't mistaken, she was . . . naked.

"Larkin?" he dared to call out in a loud whisper.

His heart sank as she came closer. No, that couldn't be her. This woman was a little larger-boned than his sister. And she wasn't pregnant. She was moving slowly, as if in pain, but she didn't appear injured in any way. Dave set his can down on a porch step and moved closer to her. Finally, he recognized her.

Ms. Wade . . . Rosie's teacher. The woman he'd flirted with, the one he'd caught casually on his camcorder. That was the same day she'd told him she was terminally ill. She couldn't have known how she'd haunted his dreams after the hurricane. He caught up to her several feet from the house, where she collapsed into his arms.

"Easy—easy, now," he said.

"Mr. Groves." Ms. Wade allowed him to hold her, cradling her head in the crook of his shoulder.

He knew he shouldn't have been turned on, but he was. She was a woman, one he'd found attractive before. And that was when she was fully clothed. How could he not be aroused by seeing her completely nude? But he rose above that, reminding himself she was in danger. More than danger: She was wet, which meant she'd come from the water, which had to mean—

"Mr. Groves, please help me," she pleaded softly. "I don't know what they've done to me. . . . "

"There's something wrong. Please—listen to me! My baby isn't supposed to be born for another three months. Please, something is wrong."

As frightened as she was, Larkin was overcome by fear when the doors opened and she could see where she'd been brought to by the four nameless attendants. The room was vast, about the size of a school gymnasium, located somewhere within that building where she'd been kept as a prisoner since after the hurricane. Dominating the room was the reason for her trepidation: an Olympic-sized swimming pool, filled and glistening with the array of lights coming in through a large, ornate stained glass window.

Before she had time to think, another contraction knifed through her with ferocious potency. Larkin threw back her head and screamed, writhing in the wheelchair they'd used to transport her.

Was the pain supposed to this unbearable? Giving birth was no picnic. She wasn't so naïve, so childlike that she didn't know that. She and Russell were to have attended the Lamaze classes together, which would have made labor supposedly easier, but they hadn't gotten that far. Her life had nearly been cut off by a stray bullet tearing through that door in Tom and Mariel's home, and now here she was.

Now she was giving birth to their child, the child she and Russell had made together, the baby their love for each other had wrought. She was giving birth alone.

And as a hybrid. That was what she was now, wasn't it? She was no longer fully human. As for the child inside her . . . was the baby human? Or a hybrid?

She'd survived the hurricane. She'd survived, barely, being shot. Would she survive this?

"Russell," she told the kind gentleman in the blue shirt. "My husband. He should be here."

"I know. I'm sorry, my dear. But I'm afraid that's not possibly," he said gently.

"But I can't do this without him. I want him with me." Larkin began to cry. "My baby's father should be here—"

"Larkin, dear, I'm sorry. But you have to get up. We have to put you in the water."

She sobered. So her fears had just been confirmed.

"In the water? You mean—in the pool?"

"Yes. You have to hurry."

"No. No, no, _no_!" She gripped the arms of the wheelchair tightly and shook her head. "I need to be in a hospital, damn it! I am having this baby prematurely. I need a hospital and my baby needs the utmost care."

"And your baby will receive that care, I promise you. But we need to get you in the water."

"_No_! You'll drown him!" Whipping her hand out, Larkin slapped hard at one of the female attendants who was trying to forcibly wrestle her hand from the wheelchair. "I won't let you do this! I won't let you kill my baby. _I won't let you_!"

The woman stared at her for a moment, touching her hand to the imprint of Larkin's hand on her cheek. Then, to her shock, the woman raised her other hand high and menacingly in the air, making Larkin cringe. Quickly, the man caught the woman's hand by the wrist.

Behind them came another voice. "That's enough! I'll take it from here."

Around the chair came Grace Underlay, first smiling a greeting to Larkin and then turning a stony glare upon the red-haired woman who'd nearly struck her.

"I'll see you later on the verandah," Grace told the woman with a blood-curdling calm. "You're all dismissed. And thank you, Dr. Maynard."

She waited until they all left. Then she crouched down beside Larkin. "Now, honey, we really do need to get you in that water. If you want everything to go well, I'm going to need you to trust me."

"But I can't. My baby will drown," Larkin repeated, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Oh, honey, the baby won't drown. I promise. And all that pain you're feeling? You need to be in the water, too. Please, Larkin. Come on. I'll go with you." Grace held out her hand. "I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you, Larkin. Trust me."

"But—in the water—"

"It's all right. Larkin, we haven't much time. This can be hard for you or this can be the kind of experience it was meant to be. I don't want it to be difficult for you. And I know I'm no substitute for Russell. He should be here with you, you're right, but he isn't. But at least you're not alone."

Again Grace extended a hand to her. Larkin gazed at it for some moments, bracing herself for the next contraction coming on. What choice did she have?

She placed her hand in Grace's and allowed herself to be guided out of the chair. Ahead of her waited the pool. Strange as it seemed, Larkin found herself fascinated by it. Enchanted by the array of colors on the surface, like watery rubies and diamonds and emeralds, created by the light and the stained glass window.

"This is not the way I pictured it," she whispered.

"No, I'm sure it's not. But it will be wonderful, all the same. You'll see."

All Larkin wore was a light, flowing cotton nightgown. At the edge of the pool steps, Grace smiled and nodded at her. Reluctantly, Larkin slipped her feet out of the sandals Dr. Maynard had brought her to wear. With Grace's hand in hers and her other hand on Larkin's forearm, the two women descended into the water.

"Feel better already, aren't you?" Grace asked.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Of course you do. And so does the baby."

"You're sure he won't—"

"_She_. And no, she won't drown, honey." The woman's smile was comforting, like that of a trusted older sister. "This is her world. And _yours_."

Larkin couldn't deny that both the water and Grace's presence had calmed her. The pain had also mysteriously subsided. Still, she admitted, "I don't know if I can accept that."

"Maybe not now, no. In the beginning, I couldn't, either. But what they say about time is true, Larkin. Time changes everything, including your perspective on things. And how you deal with the changes in your life depends on your perspective."

What was happening to her? It wasn't that she'd never been immersed in water before, because like every human being she had. A lake, the ocean, another pool somewhere, even the bathroom shower. Yet something was different about this water, right here and right now. But it wasn't the water itself.

Something was different, Larkin knew, about _her_. She would never be the same again. That realization both frightened and thrilled her at the same time.

"Oh, the baby . . . ." She supported herself against the side of the pool.

"Yes. It won't be long now," Grace told her, only releasing her hand when she knew Larkin was strong enough to stand on her own.

Within minutes, the water turned red with the flow of blood and life. Larkin opened her mouth, a little excited cry of awe bubbling up from her throat, and then laughter. She could feel this new tiny being fighting her way out of her, and within seconds the water was clearing of the blood, again becoming clean and clear and capturing the colors of the window behind them.

"I'll leave you two to get acquainted." With true affection in her smile, Grace turned and started out of the pool, tossing back over her shoulder the words, "Just do what comes naturally, Larkin. Don't fight it. Do what comes naturally."

_The baby is swimming in the water._ Larkin heard that thought both in her mind and in her heart, and it brought her a joy that she might not have thought possible only a short time earlier. The little one wasn't venturing far from her, though, she noticed.

_Do what comes naturally._

No, nothing would ever be the same again. _She_ would never be the same. Larkin knew that as she lowered herself down into the water, bringing her head down under the surface with her eyes closed. Seconds later she opened them to see her baby there in front of her. Interestingly, for a baby born prematurely, the tiny girl was healthy and about the size of a baby born full-term. Her little arms were extended out and her little mouth was puckering in that natural state of babies wanting to suckle.

_I'm not holding my breath. I'm breathing underwater,_ Larkin deduced.

And so was the baby. How marvelous. How . . . truly beautiful.

She reached out and brought her new daughter in close, cuddling her. Had there ever been anything more breathtaking in this world than this little child? She'd been born with a shock of curly brown hair, a little like Rose in her baby pictures.

Larkin thought, with a twinge of sadness, that those were Russell's eyes gazing back at her with sheer love.

This was the dangerous part, coming this close. Docking the boat on the beach without being spotted and moving stealthily through the bushes and past the trees to the building was risky enough. But now, concealed only by the bushes on the side of the building, Tom knew he would have to wait for just the right moment to make his move.

There had to be a window left ajar or a door left unlocked, something, anything that would let him into that place. He heard footsteps approaching on the verandah, several of them, in fact, and dove behind a bush, pressing himself against the lattice side of the building. From his holster he drew his gun and cocked it.

He was really doing this. Incredible—and upsetting. If anyone had told him years ago that he would be rescuing his daughter and deputy from the woman he loved, he would have clocked the guy. Not only was he there to rescue them, but his gun was drawn—and he would use it, even on Grace, if necessary.

"I though I gave explicit orders that she wasn't to be harmed."

That was Grace's voice right above him. Tom held his breath, not even daring to breathe. Whoever was at the receiving end of that demand was pretty damn scared.

"She wasn't harmed, Mrs. Underlay, I swear to you."

"You lifted your hand to her. You were about to strike her. Who the hell do you think you are to do that?"

Tom set his jaw tightly, tamping down on his own temper. If one of those hybrids had laid a hand on his Kira, he'd make sure they wouldn't live to see—

"I didn't hit her! She—she hit me first!" the other woman protested.

"You've had no patience with her since she's been here. You think I haven't noticed that?" Grace challenged her. "Let me explain something to all of you, just in case somebody's not clear on this. I'm grooming her to become my second-in-command . . . "

_Oh, hell, no!_ Tom shouted inwardly. So that had been her reason for doing this? This was what she wanted with her daughter? To train her to lead those monsters? Her intentions hadn't been motherly; they'd been sinister.

He'd been correct in forbidding Grace to get anywhere near Kira. Now he knew that. A part of him, a very minute part, albeit, had questioned himself for his decision and felt guilty about it. After all, for better or worse, that was Kira's mother. She had every right to see her daughter.

But now he knew he'd done the right thing in not permitting her to get near her, and he was doing the right thing by getting his little girl back.

"Any disrespect shown to her is disrespect shown to _me_," Grace went on. "You know what that is? That's insubordination. I won't tolerate it. Not on _my_ island."

The gunshots—there were three of them—caught Tom by surprise. They made him jump and rang in his ears. He heard the other woman's body crumble to the floor.

"Get her out of my sight," he heard Grace mutter, and then her heels clicked against the floorboards as she stepped away and back into the building.

Tom leaned against the lattice, shaking his head. _Oh, Grace. What have you become?_

She had become . . . _him._ As much as he didn't want to admit it, he could see the truth in that. That was him, not always, but at times in the past, when a darkness had risen within him. That darkness was now in the woman he'd loved. The woman he still loved, somewhere within his heart.

Pushing that all aside, he waited until the others had left with the dead hybrid. Then he stepped around the side of the building, kicked in a grate in the lower level, and gained access to forbidden territory.

_A special hello to Brendan & Polish Princess! And I'll try to have Chapter 8 up later this week.--seabluemermaid_


	8. Chapter 8

**AFTER THE STORM**

**Chapter 8**

Spread out on a table done up lavishly with a fresh linen tablecloth, fine bone china, and extravagant silverware, was more food than Kira Underlay could ever eat. What was even more surprising was that mixed in the variety were her favorite foods from childhood: sugar cookies, chicken nuggets, M&Ms, and chocolate chip ice cream.

But most fascinating to her was the table centerpiece: tiny pink roses in a clear glass vase. That was something she'd never forgotten about her mother, how she'd loved pink roses. There had also seemed to be a fresh bunch each week, either on the hallway table or in the breakfast nook of their home when she was growing up.

In spite of herself, Kira was hungry. She sat nibbling on some nuggets, sitting on a chair so elaborate that Alice in Wonderland might have used it at the Mad Hatter's tea party. She looked around the large, plain room, with its wonderful ten-foot-high windows all firmly shut and locked . . . and so was the only door in the room. There was no other way out, either. Pure and simple, she was a prisoner.

And if she was a prisoner there, then where were they keeping Lewis?

Subconsciously she reached for her cell phone, only to remember it had been taken from her pocket. Now she regretted not having been honest with her dad, who was probably worried sick about her right about now.

From behind her she heard the door open for the first time since she'd been there. Casting a glance over her shoulder, Kira froze, motionless. The morsel of chicken fell from her fingers onto the plate in front of her.

"Hello, baby."

Slowly, she rose from her seat and squinted at the woman who'd entered.

No—that couldn't be. She was suddenly afraid, both of the impossible and of impending disappointment. What was this? Some sort of cruel joke? Were the hybrids entertaining themselves by toying with her head and her heart?

The woman stepped closer. She was older than Kira recalled; there were more lines in her face, traces of silver in her mostly dark brown hair. But still, she was beautiful.

Finally, Kira spoke. "You're—you're not my mother. You _can't_ be my mother!"

Something in the way the woman looked at her, something so familiar, made Kira choke back a breath. She watched as the woman wrung her hands and, rather shyly, she offered a sad smile.

"Kira, sweetheart . . . it _is_ me. I'm your mother." The woman waved a hand in the air. "I can't tell you how much—oh, how many times I've dreamed of this moment. Just seeing you again, baby, it's all I've thought about."

Kira shook her head briskly. "_No_. That can't be. My mom's dead. You can't be her."

"It's me, Kira. I never died. And neither did my love for you."

"But . . . "

Awkwardly, Grace turned toward the food. "Do you—do you still like all these things? I remembered, you know. I cooked the chicken for you myself, baby. I know you're not getting enough to eat at that stepmother of yours—"

"Mariel? Mariel always makes dinner for us." Kira sounded cross, defensive. "Can I call her, please? Can I call Mariel and Dad? Let them know I'm okay?"

"Oh—oh, sure. Sure you can. But, honey, first, we need time, you and I."

"_You're not my mother! Stop it!"_

Kira trembled. If that wasn't her mother, then she was one hybrid who deserved an Academy Award. The expression on her face was one of such deep, unfathomable hurt.

"I _am_ your mother, Kira," she tried again. "Your real mother. Please, I know this is very difficult for you to accept. But I love you and I couldn't wait to—"

"You couldn't wait to what? Kidnap me? Take me by force?" she challenged, fighting back an onslaught of tears. "That's what you call love, Mom?"

Grace swallowed painfully. Her gaze fell to her feet. "Kira . . . "

"You love me so much that you stayed away from me all this time. You stayed away for years, Mom. And for what? For _this_?"

"You don't understand, Kira. What I've been trying to do is—"

"What you've been trying to do is _what_? More important than being my mother? More important than being with my dad?" Kira raised her voice in anger. "He got married again, you know."

"Yes. I know. To Mariel." Grace spat out the name. "And it seems I've lost both of you to that woman."

"Whatever, Mom. I want to go home. I want to see Dad and Mariel."

To her surprise, Grace broke down in tears. "This isn't the way I wanted this to be," she protested. "I wanted to please you. You're my child and I love you. Can't you just give me a little time? All I want is a few minutes with you. Let me just be with you for a few minutes, honey."

"If you loved me, then you would've been there for me. I want Lewis and I want Daddy and Mariel." Enraged, she turned away from Grace, shunning her touch. "You made your choice, Mom, and it wasn't me. Now I'm making _my_ choice. You think you can just prance back into my life this way. Just give me cookies and candy like some little kid after you abandoned me and Dad—"

"Kira, please, I didn't abandon you!"

"But I'm not a little girl anymore. I grew up . . . while you were out trying to take over the world or whatever it is you're trying to do here."

Through the stillness an alarm blared, loud and intrusively enough that Kira had to cover her ears.

"What's that?" she asked.

"I guess we have an intruder," Grace responded in a monotone. "I have to go. I'll see that the young man is brought straight to you. And I'll have a boat take you back to the mainland."

Kira did a double take at her. "Just like that?"

"Yes, honey. Just like that." Her tone softened. Grace walked stiffly to the door. With her back to her daughter, she bowed her head. "You're my daughter. I won't keep you against your will. I only wanted to see you again. Contrary to what you must think of me, I've missed you. I've missed you more than you'll ever believe possible."

And then Grace disappeared through the door, leaving her alone.

That _was_ her mother. No DNA test was necessary. No judge to give a final decree putting an end to all doubts. Kira knew it in her heart that this was the same woman who'd given birth to her. The same one who'd once so lovingly played with her and pushed her on the backyard swing and tucked her in and sang her lullabies.

And her heart, that traitor, filled with a natural excitement as well as regret for the way she'd treated her. But what had she expected? Kira knew she'd be angry with herself as early as the next morning for having shunned her, but she didn't care. The betrayal—or what she'd perceived as betrayal—was so hurtful, so heartbreaking, to know that not once in all those years had her mother tried to reach her.

As much as it pained her, she wasn't going to make it easy for her mother.

* * *

Terry Wade held the large mug securely between her hands, savoring its heat and aroma. "What did you say this was called again?" she asked.

Russell Varon, who stood at the stove beside his brother-in-law, offered her a gentlemanly nod of his head. "_Caldo gallego. _It's a hearty soup. A real favorite in my family."

"Oh. It's delicious. You're a good cook, Mr. Varon."

He chortled. "It's Russell. And thanks, but I picked that up today at a Cuban restaurant not far from here. My cooking doesn't even come close to that, believe me."

Pulling a chair closer to Ms. Wade, he straddled it, thinking of how best to approach her. Was she up to being questioned? Terry Wade certainly appeared to be. She was doing better, it seemed, than when Dave had first brought her into the house. She sat, slowly eating the bowl's contents as if she hadn't eaten in days—and for all they knew, maybe she hadn't. Primly, the young woman adjusted the collar of the bathrobe.

_Larkin's_ robe. Russell scratched his chin, thinking how strange it was to see it on someone other than his sexy wife. But it covered the young woman's nakedness and warmed her as she sat together with them in the kitchen. The kids, fortunately, were in their rooms.

Might as well plunge right on in headfirst, Russell decided.

"Ms. Wade—uh, Terry," he began, "so you're not ill anymore?"

She shrugged, swallowing a mouthful of ham, white beans and broth. "That's what I was told, but I really don't know. I know I'm not the same person I was before they pushed me into that water. I . . . I feel different. Can't explain it, but I am."

Russell, though afraid to ask, ventured, "You—you do remember my wife, don't you, Terry?"

"Your wife? That would be the pretty one with the dark hair, right? That reporter on the news?"

"That's her." Dave grinned. "You see her that night? Meet up with Larkin somewhere along the way?"

"Oh, I wish I could tell you that I did. But I don't think I saw her anywhere on the island."

"On the island," Russell repeated, sniffing. "So how'd you get here?"

"I ran away," she said simply. "I was able to escape. I was being examined—that's why I didn't have a stitch of clothing on. But I grabbed a boat and . . . here I am. I almost didn't make it here, but, well . . . "

"Is there total chaos on the island?" Dave asked. "After all, they don't have their leader anymore."

"They do have a leader. Actually things are pretty organized there. I—I assume that's their leader."

They were interrupted then by a knock at the door. Dave rose, opening it to find Mariel Underlay standing there in the doorway, peering in at them. Strange, receiving a visit from her, of all people, at that hour.

"Hey!" Dave greeted her.

"Hey, yourself." She smiled but couldn't erase her frown. "Can I come in?"

"Sure. Everything okay?"

Mariel laughed sarcastically. "Is it ever okay in this place?"

Russell was caught by surprise by his reaction to seeing his former wife, looking so fresh and appealing in a white skirt and a burgundy tank top. Draped over her shoulders to ward off the cool evening air was a crocheted shawl. Her breezy smile teased him, made him nostalgic for old times when she'd smiled at him that way, before Tom had come into the picture and . . . everything had changed. He straightened in his chair and tore his attention away from her.

She noticed Ms. Wade and gave her another glance, seated there dressed in a robe. Her reaction was amusing. "Oh-kay. That can't be good," she murmured, more to herself.

"Mariel, you remember Rose's teacher, Terry Wade," Russell filled her in.

"Rose's—oh. Yes, Ms. Wade. I—I hope everything's all right."

"Nothing's ever gonna be all right again in our lifetime," Dave echoed her earlier sentiment.

"She's, um . . . one of you," Russell explained to Mariel. "She escaped the hybrids on the island. But Mariel, first—what's wrong?"

"Oh, well . . . " She looked away from the teacher, her cheeks dotted with color.

"Do you want to tell me in private, or—"

"No, I guess I can tell you here. I've been calling both Tom and Kira for a while now. Neither of them has been home. Their calls are going straight to voicemail. I'm just wondering if you or Dave have seen them."

"I wish I had better news for you, but no. Haven't seen or heard from either of them." Russell thought for a moment, seeking to be helpful. "How about Lewis? Did you talk to him?"

"According to one of the other deputies, they haven't seen Lewis since sometime this afternoon. He's gone missing, too." Bravely, Mariel tilted up her chin and spoke as calmly as she could. "I'm afraid something's wrong, Russell."

Dave stood behind Terry, rubbing her shoulders soothingly. Russell motioned to her.

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, by any chance?" he asked.

"About what, exactly?" Terry asked.

"About the disappearance of Sheriff Underlay, his daughter Kira, and his deputy Lewis Sirk?"

"I didn't see Sheriff Underlay on the island or out on the water," Terry reported.

Sighing, Mariel took a seat beside Russell. He could tell she was exhausted after a long day at work; she didn't need this latest development at all. An unwanted surge of electricity buzzed through him as he watched her rub her slender neck, the way she would sometimes when she rose from bed. He couldn't permit himself to think of those things, not with the effect they had on him.

"It seems they have a new leader," he informed Mariel. "Not trying to change the subject, but we were talking to Terry about it right before you came in."

"A new leader?" Mariel looked from Russell to the teacher.

"I'm not sure she's all that _new_," Terry told them. "I wasn't there long enough to understand the way their hierarchy works, but I got the feeling that lady had been in change for a long time."

Russell scowled. "Not Eli Szura?"

"I don't know who that is. I heard the name mentioned a couple times, sure, but I never saw him. No—the one I saw was Grace."

"Grace?"

"Some of them called her Grace. Mostly, they called her Mrs. Underlay." Innocently, Terry Wade helped herself to another spoonful of _caldo gallego_, blowing on it first to cool it off. "That's not a name you hear a lot, so I'm sure that was it. Mrs. Underlay . . . like _Sheriff_ Underlay. Maybe they're related somehow."

Russell eyed her momentarily, letting his gaze travel up to Dave's face, which told the world those wheels in that head of his were churning like crazy. Finally he checked on Mariel. All the color had drained from her face and her brow was knitted in a frown.

"Nooo. It couldn't be . . . " Her voice trailed off and her eyes grew stormy. She was thisclose to pitching a fit.

"Yes, it could. Just another one of those little things," he remarked bitingly, "that _conveniently_ slips your husband's mind, I guess."


	9. Chapter 9

**AFTER THE STORM**

**CHAPTER 9**

The baby had fallen asleep at her breast. That gave Larkin the opportunity to just take her in, to enjoy the feel of her baby-soft skin against Larkin's own hand and how sweet she looked, how much like a tiny angel sleeping. When she was sure the little one wouldn't awaken, Larkin rose from the rocking chair she'd been breastfeeding her in and placed the baby gently into her cradle.

This was a different room than the one she'd been in while she'd recuperated. Larger, brighter, cozier, admittedly inviting. The cradle was beautiful, crafted from lovely, sturdy oak, an antique. Shelves on the room's west wall were stacked with little bottles of sugar water and supplemental formula for a newborn, as well as clean diapers, laundry-fresh onesies, and other baby clothes.

For Mom there was a CD player with, oddly enough, a collection of CDs that Larkin had at home. Another shelf housed books, mostly classics and current bestsellers, along with magazines with new mothers as their target readership. If that wasn't enough to spoil her, the room was equipped with its own private bathroom, which boasted a shower with a massage showerhead and a separate sunken bathtub, and lined all along the wall beneath a window were bath salts, aromatherapy oils, oatmeal soaps and costly moisturizing lotions.

This was a hybrid's dwelling? Larkin fancied it more like one of those luxurious spas she'd often thought of spending a full day at for pampering, though work, marriage, and the kids—at that time, Russell and Mariel's kids—had made that impossible.

One little interesting fact, however. There was no TV and no radio in that room. As a news junkie, Larkin saw that as a drawback for sure. But everyone had treated her and now her baby, too, so well through all the trauma she'd gone through that she wasn't about to complain to anyone.

Quietly, so as not to wake the baby, she lifted her stretchy top enough to examine herself in the dresser mirror. Amazing! The gunshot wound was healing nicely, much faster than she'd ever dreamed possible. Even after giving birth, she was feeling remarkably stronger and healthier than she had in a long time. That kindly Dr. Maynard had told her that giving birth would only do her good, and that in another week or two she'd be just about as good as new. Contentedly, Larkin sighed, pulling her tank top back down.

Russell. That was a huge part of her life that was still sorely missing. What was it Grace Underlay had said before, right before Shannon was born? Larkin couldn't remember it exactly, but it almost sounded like Russell _could_ have been there with her, like Grace wouldn't have prevented him from doing so . . . but something had kept him away.

She turned to gaze at her sleeping child, unable to keep the next thought from invading her mind.

_Come hell or high water, your daddy should have found a way to see you come into this world, little one._

Larkin shook her head, upset with herself. She had been through so much in the past few days and besides, she'd just given birth for the first time in her life. Her hormones had to be raging, so she couldn't trust her emotions right now—the same emotions led by resentment toward Russell, the man she loved, her husband.

The room's silence was broken by a light rap on the door. After being granted access, there in the doorway appeared a petite but plump woman in her early seventies, white-haired and grandmotherly. She wore a mint green blouse and a matching skirt, her smile infectious.

"That little darling napping?" she whispered.

Larkin, who'd gone to the door, whispered back, "Finally! It's like she's afraid she'll miss something."

The older woman muffled a laugh behind an age-lined hand. "What a sweetie! Mrs. Varon, I'm Clara. Mrs. Underlay sent me to see if you could use a little break, some time to yourself."

"Oh . . . " Instinctively, Larkin glanced back at her sleeping daughter.

"It's all right, honey. I know what you're thinking. You don't know me and here I am, offering to baby-sit your precious little Shannon."

Larkin chuckled. "You know her name?"

"Who around here _doesn't_ know her name? With Dr. Maynard bragging about her to everybody?" Clara's eyes twinkled. "Oh, listen, if you'd prefer, if you don't feel comfortable, I understand. No offense will be taken. We just thought you could use a little time to yourself to get out of this room for a spell."

The elderly woman turned to leave, stopped by Larkin's hand on her arm.

"No, wait, Clara. All right—sure." Larkin nodded. "Come to think of it, I could use a little walk."

Clara didn't pressure her at all. "Well, only if you're sure, honey."

"I am. Thank you. I shouldn't be too long."

"You take all the time you need."

Larkin started out the door, then stopped and asked, "Clara, what was that alarm that went off before? Was there a fire or something?"

"Alarm? Oh." Giggling, Clara whispered, "That was a new cook in the kitchen. Had a little mishap with a skillet of potatoes left on the stove a little too long."

"I see. Everything okay now?"

"Everything's just fine and dandy now. You run along."

With a kiss blown at her little slumbering Shannon, Larkin headed out into the corridor. What she wanted was to drink in a full, huge sip of fresh air. She hadn't been outside, with the sky above her and the trees all around her, and she longed for all of that.

She had to admit that it felt great, the soles of her shoes striking against the floor and then outside on the ground as she walked. Along the way she encountered other people, both male and female, of varying ages. All of them greeted her respectfully, even reverently, some clearing a path for her to pass like they would for royalty.

"Hello, Mrs. Varon! How are you feeling?"

"Let me know if there's anything you need, Mrs. Varon."

"I'll be glad to help you any way I can, Mrs. Varon. I'm here at your service."

_How nice_! Larkin thought, heading out of the building into the fresh air.

No one had stopped her, either. Obviously, she wasn't being kept prisoner. She felt embarrassed by her earlier outburst, how distrustful she'd been right before Shannon's birth. With the exception of that woman who'd nearly struck her, everyone had treated her very well—especially Grace Underlay.

Tom's first wife. Kira's mother. Larkin tried to grasp that. She'd liked Grace almost from the start. She'd felt like Grace was someone she could trust. Strange, though, how she had ended up marrying a man like Tom. Not for anything, but Tom was something of a detached, hard-to-understand man, sometimes rather cold and stoic. Actually, he was much more like Mariel, though even she had her warmer side.

Grace? Grace was a warm, kind-hearted woman. Like a favorite sister, with eyes that danced with humor and fun. Grace and Tom—the original odd couple.

Larkin came to a clearing, realizing she was down near the water. Boy, she'd walked a long way! The walk had energized her, strengthened her, made her feel whole and healthy again. What touched her, too, was that already she missed her baby, that new little person in her life. Her heart swelled inside her with love, more love than she'd ever thought possible.

And then she stopped, staring out at the water. A boat had been pulled up to the shore, the tide lazily lapping at its hull. A small motorboat, currently unmanned.

And on its side, even more curious to her, were the words HOMESTEAD SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT.

* * *

It did no good to shout. Tom finally came to that conclusion after he'd hollered so long and hard, he'd made himself hoarse. The explanation? That room had to be soundproof. He could have shouted his lungs out in there, and not a soul in the world would have heard him.

Gritting his teeth, he tried again to free his hands, tied with rope behind him. That was a humiliating position for him to begin with, tied up also with a rope around his waist that secured him to the ceiling. Any movement on his part made him swing slightly, his long legs dangling in the air, and enough movement made him dizzy.

At last he heard a door open behind him. He felt heat and color rising from his neck as Grace came around him, walking at a leisurely, casual pace. She smiled regally up at him, eyeing the rope suspending him in the air and giggling.

Tom spoke first. "Grace, I demand you let me down right now. You hear me?"

She feigned a shiver. "Oooh, yes, sir! I'm soooo scared!"

"Yeah? Well, if you're not now, you will be," he growled. "You had your goons tie me up like this. What the hell—"

"My goons,' as you call them, had no choice but to tie you up. You came here, uninvited and unannounced, Tom. You trespassed onto my property. You were—now what's the term you'd use, my big, strong sheriff?—breaking and entering, like a common burglar." Grace shook her head. "You're not the sheriff here. _Comprende_? This island is under _my_ law. You're tied up because you had to be restrained, Tom. Breaks my heart to do that, but you've been a bad boy."

"That's not how I see it. _You're_ the one who's been a bad girl."

She folded her arms across her chest, her smirk insolent. "Maybe you should spank me."

"You know, that's crossed my mind a couple times, too. First chance I get. And don't think I won't do it, either." A small triumph, but a triumph for him nonetheless, seeing his threat wipe that grin off her face and replace it with a fretful frown. "Now where's my daughter?"

"_Your_ daughter? I thought was _my_ daughter, too."

"She is. But you had no right to kidnap her. And Lewis Sirk—where's he?"

"Relax, Tom. They're both fine."

"Unharmed?"

Her eyes blazed. "How dare you, Tom Underlay? How dare you even suggest that I'd let anyone harm Kira? I have a good mind to let you hang up there like yesterday's wash for a whole week."

It was his turn to get nervous, though he damn sure wouldn't show it. "They'd miss me, don't you think?"

"Really? And send out _whom_ to look for you? The military?" Grace laughed heartily. "Yes, that wonderful Colonel Lopez—now she's been a helpful little ally to you, hasn't she?"

He sighed impatiently. "You listen to me, and you listen good, Grace. I will not allow you to groom our daughter for—for whatever leadership role you want her to take here."

"Groom her for—Tom, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't try to deny it. I overheard you. You know, when you killed that woman before." He steadied his voice, having heard it crack. "I won't let you do that to Kira."

"You—you unbelievable, arrogant, black-hearted—" Grace was shaking with anger. She stopped to look behind her at someone peering in at them through a window. "I need my husband released and untied, please. _Immediately_!"

What had just happened? Tom said nothing as three male hybrids entered. He was lowered from the ceiling. He noted with interest that Grace instructed them to be careful with him, that he wasn't to fall and injure himself, so he was lowered back down onto his feet by three sets of hands.

"Not his hands," she said then as one of the men had begun to splice at the rope around Tom's wrist with a jackknife. "You can untie his hands later, when I leave. And . . . I need to speak to him in private."

"Yes, Mrs. Underlay," one of the three said, leading the other two back out of the room with him.

Tom licked his lips and looked at her. He wasn't ready for what happened next, when she marched right up to him and slapped him hard across his face. Stunned at first, his temper returned full force.

Before he could speak, she railed at him, "You must really think very little of me, to think I would do such a thing! For your information, I was referring to someone else. _Not _our daughter. I have no intentions of grooming Kira for a leadership role or any other role with these people."

He swallowed hard. "Oh."

"_Oh_," she mimicked him, making him see red and glare at her even more. "And she's leaving the island promptly. Both she and the young man, Lewis."

Tom nodded. "All right."

"And let me just say that you're a bastard for doing that, Tom. You and Mariel turning my own daughter against me. She wants nothing to do with me, thanks to you. Are you satisfied, you sonofabitch?"

"_Grace!"_ He shook his head in frustration. "You should talk now. Come on. You must not think very highly of me, either, if you really believe I'd turn our little girl against you. And Mariel? She never did such a thing, either. She's not like that. She's a decent woman, Grace. And even if she wasn't, I'd never permit that. You should know better to even suggest that."

He softened even more, seeing her bottom lip quiver. "Grace, honey—"

"Don't honey' me. You're not my husband anymore. And all the love I had for you is gone. It drowned in that hurricane, Tom. And when my daughter turned away from me before, it—"

"She doesn't know you, Grace. She's probably a—a little upset with you." Tom tried to reason with her, speaking tenderly. "She's a kid, sweetheart. You're not the only one puzzled by her sometimes, if that's any consolation."

"It's not." She looked away from him. "I'll have her returned to the mainland with Deputy Sirk."

"I'll just take them back with me, all right?"

"No, _you will not_!" she shouted. "I will not let you rescue' her from me, Tom. You will not be her big hero' while I look like the bad guy."

"I'm not trying to do that, Grace. Come on." Tom drew a breath. "Look, what if we both sat down with her? Like a family, we talk to her together, you and I? Let me talk to her first, prepare her. Then, when she's ready, the three of us will talk this over."

For a moment Tom thought his former wife would give in. She was wavering, that much was certain, and she even looked at him with a sweet hopefulness that he remembered with so much affection, it surprised him. He moved to wrap his arms around her and moaned, recalling that his wrists were bound behind him.

"No. No, I won't do that," she insisted, sounding like a willful child.

"Oh, now, Grace. C'mon. Don't be like that. You know you want to. . . . "

With a playful smile, he was teasing her, cajoling her, like he'd done years ago. That might've worked, too. She looked like she'd smile and cave.

Then, to his deep disappointment, he watched her expression harden.

"I won't let you do that, either, Tom Underlay," Grace protested. "I won't let you be a big hero to me, either."

"Grace. Oh, Grace. Please, just listen to me—"

"_Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke! Duke!"_ she yelled into a handheld radio. "I need you! Now!"

Tom refused to give up, though his teasing took on a scolding edge. "Grace, why are you being so unreasonable? You're punishing Kira because you're angry with me. And you're taking it out on me because you feel she rejected you. You're taking no responsibility here for being AWOL in her life, honey. But despite what Kira may have said to you, that kid loves you, and—"

He stopped when a mountain of a man, well over six feet tall and three hundred pounds, appeared through the door. So this was "Duke"—Grace's attack dog, basically, on two legs.

"Duke, please escort the sheriff back to his boat," she requested.

"The sheriff.' I'm the sheriff' now," Tom told them man stiffly. "I'm also her husband, Duke."

"And if my _ex_-husband gives you any trouble, feel free to carry him _bodily_," she said, eyeing Tom with fire in her eyes, "and _throw_ him back into his boat, if you have to."

Tom looked about to deliver a stinging retort but then he took a long, hard, head-to-toe look at the bald giant hovering over him and changed his mind. He wasn't letting her leave so easily, though, calling after her, "Grace, just to set the record straight. . . . "

"Oh, what is it now, Tom?"

"My love for you . . . _didn't _drown for you that day." He hesitated, adding, "Even if your love for me is gone, I still love you, Grace. I still love you something crazy."

_Please turn around, dammit, _he thought as he watched her, standing there with her back to him, her hand frozen on the doorknob. She stood like that for seconds before turning around and stalking back to him.

What could he expect? Another slap across the face? Hearing her order Duke, the Attack Dog, to beat him black and blue, right then and there?

He couldn't believe how on edge he was, more afraid of her rejection of his love than anything else. But he kept his chin high proudly as she reached him. She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt roughly—and she kissed him fully on the mouth, a scorching, heart-stopping, passion-charged kiss.

Then she released him, totally flustered and visibly angry with herself, and she mumbled, _"Bastard!"_ before storming out of the room and slamming the door behind herself.

_Chapter 10 should be on its way this week. Thanks to all who've commented!_


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10**

The waves had brought it to the shores of that planet called Earth. Not gently, either. It had been tossed about in the surf, still somewhat rough, the last traces of a storm banished to the sea.

But when it had landed, it was on wet sand that glistened from the morning's first light. Conveniently, stealthily, it rested beneath a strong wooden pier. It breathed in the salty air, spreading out its orange tentacles, digging into that lonely patch of land. Digging viciously.

More waves tossed, battering the pier's barnacle- and moss-encrusted columns. What was that it heard? Birds—gulls, to be precise. Winged creatures that were native to oceanic regions, inexplicably marvelous in their movements and flight.

There were some things about that planet that were whimsical, nearly artistic. At the very least, it was a suitable spot in the universe for what had to be done. But time was wasting with all those trivial matters.

It sank its tentacles even deeper into the sand, writhing and trembling as its mass stretched. Muscles would be needed, along with the formation of bones. Organs and tendons and curious things like hair and…what were those things called there in that primitive little world?

Ah, yes. _Eyes_. His would be dark brown, almost black. Hopefully more difficult for the humans to read. They were good at that, that much had to be said for them, if nothing else. Humans, some of them, possessed an interesting ability to decipher at times, to read each other. It was almost a natural sort of sorcery.

A mouth developed. And a nose. Already, it could smell the fragrance in the wind, unique to the ocean. A chest was being formed and limbs—legs, arms, hands, feet.

A human male. Lying on his back, he laughed, tasting the salt from the water he'd been submerged in only minutes earlier.

A human man. For all intents and purposes, to the naked eye belonging to those stupid creatures native to that planet, he was a man. Like Szura before him, he would take on that form and walk among them. But he would finish the mission that Szura had tried heroically to carry out, murdered before he could succeed.

His murdered had been that Underlay. Underlay had interfered with that noble mission, both him and that miserable creature named Varon. But it was all right now. Underlay and Varon would be dealt with, accordingly and swiftly.

The alien smiled. He would personally see to it that neither Varon, a human man, and Underlay, who was one of them, though a sorry excuse for one, would never get in the way again.

He drew in a deep breath and sat up. In the distance he could see a vessel out on the horizon. Far above it—what was that? A jet plane. How amusing! Appearing much smaller than its actual size, it cut slowly and leisurely across that early morning sky, one of the modes of transportation those primitive people used to get from one place to another, archaic by the standards of the rest of the universe. Still, however, that planet was so quaint, like a living history lesson.

"Say there, son—are you all right?"

More alert than startled, he bolted into a sitting position. Calmly, quietly. That was to be his approach. He had to ensure that he wasn't outnumbered right now. He lifted his head and smiled in the direction of the voice. A human voice, male. Aged.

He could tell he'd guessed correctly as the two figures drew closer. One was a man, older and lined, possibly seventy in earth years. Beside him, bound by a cord or rope of some kind, was a furry, mangy creature. Ugly, too, in the alien's opinion. A dog, it was called. The alien had never seen one before, and for that reason he was momentarily stunned by the sight of it.

"I'm fine. Just fine," he replied.

The old human sniffed. Narrowed his eyes at him, looking doubtful. He pushed his headwear, an article of clothing bearing the word MARLINS back on his head. The alien frowned. Weren't marlin fish? The old man must have been fond of the creatures.

"Son, you—you know you're naked?" the old man stammered, seeming embarrassed.

He rose to his feet, his smile widening with feigned innocence. "Am I?"

"Well, uh—yeah. Yeah, you are. What happened? You had too much to drink last night or you sick or somethin'?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that, sir. I just…washed up on this hellhole of a planet of yours from another galaxy. Didn't get a chance to get such trivial things like clothing."

Its laugh was low and guttered. Quietly malevolent. Perhaps instinctively—again, humans had that sixth sense—the old man perceived he was in danger. He backed away slowly, he and his hairy animal, but he didn't make it very far. He didn't make it very far at all.

The old man's desperate scream pierced an otherwise peaceful morning.

* * *

Mariel Underlay cut the engine but didn't move from her car right away. Instead she sat beside the sheriff's cruiser in the driveway to her home, thinking and wondering. Asking herself questions that seemed to have no answer and trying to quiet the storm within her soul. All the while she absently twisted the wedding band on her finger.

Was she making too much of this? She asked herself the question more for the purpose of getting it out of the way, before it could drive her crazy.

There was a change of that, of course. She could have been reading too much into this. So Tom's wife was alive. So he knew about it and had most likely spoken to Grace already. So, all right, perhaps he hadn't told his new wife about the old one having returned miraculously from the dead.

How did a man go about that, just out of curiously? Did he slip it in nonchalantly at the dinner table as he passed the potatoes?

_Oh, by the way, baby, you remember my ex? The one who died the night I was changed into something not of this world? Well, honey, you are not gonna believe this, but guess what? She's still around! And she's raising hell on our planet! Is that amazing or what?_

First swinging her long legs out of the car, Mariel slammed the car door shut in her frustration. How many lies had she put up with Tom telling her up to that point? Could she even count that high?

She should have never left Russell for this man. The father of her children, her lover and friend—she'd left him for this lying stranger.

A sob caught at the back of her throat. That was what Tom was to her. Why had it taken her so long to see that? He was a stranger. A stranger who had not only lied to her constantly but who had once punished her by spiriting away her children. A stranger who had kept dark, terrible secrets from her. A stranger in her bed and in her life.

"Mariel?"

Her reaction was to cover her ears at first with her hands. Anything to block out his voice.

"Honey, is that you?"

"Yes," she called back. Under her breath she snipped, "Who else would it be, you…liar!"

Mariel tossed her purse and keys onto the kitchen counter. There was a bottle of scotch in the cabinet. She found a glass and poured herself a generous shot.

"Mariel? Honey? You all right?"

The amber liquid burned a streak down her throat, but she didn't care. Licking her lips, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before turning to face him.

Tom stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Shirt unbuttoned, a bottle of beer in his hand, he gazed warily at her.

"No, Tom. I'm not all right," she answered. Then she poured herself another drink.

"Where've you been?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Only you'd be the only one getting a straight answer." She downed her second drink, so fast it nauseated her. "Where's Kira?"

Tom couldn't hide his reaction in time, rolling his eyes. "She'll be along."

"_She'll be along?_ What the hell does that mean?"

"That means—oh…" He waved in the direction of the doorway. "Why don't you come into the living room, Mar? Sit down. I'll tell you everything."

"Oh, now that would be a first. And how's Grace?" She smiled, more to push back the hot tears when he regarded her guiltily. "Yeah. I know about her, too, my dear husband."

"Look, Mar…" He swiped a hand over his face. "I'm exhausted. Could we please talk about this?"

"We can talk right here. Come on, Tom. _Talk._ Tell me how long you've known she's been here. Tell me everything, like you promised."

"Not long, not long. I swear, Mariel. I just found this out."

"Really? And how many times have you slept with her by now?" Mariel whirled around after asking the question, not really wanting to know the answer. "Did you rekindle your love for each other? With candles and champagne? Are you planning to destroy this planet together? How romantic. Is that it?"

"Destroy this—oh, that's ridiculous. Come on, Mariel. Why would I have done what I've just done during the hurricane if I was just going to join them? And I didn't sleep with her. That's over. I love you, not Grace."

"Do you? Really?" It was difficult keeping her voice from quivering. "Did you lie to Grace as much as you've lied to me, Tom? When she was your wife, did you give her as much reason not to trust you as you've given me?"

Tom strode into the kitchen and leaned against the island. "I really wish you wouldn't do this right now, Mariel. Could we put Grace aside for a minute? Please? Can we just talk about us?"

Ignoring his request, she threw her glass into the sink hard enough that it shattered against the stainless steel.

"I don't believe you. I don't believe you don't still feel something for her," she told him accusingly. "If you didn't, I wouldn't have had to hear about this from someone else."

"Yeah?" Tom drawled, eyeing her suspiciously. "And who was this someone else?"

She responded without hesitation. "You're expecting me to say Russell, I take it. You can relax, Tom. I heard it from Terry Wade."

"Terry Wade? Who's that?"

"Rose's teacher. They got to her." Mariel swallowed. "She was terminally ill. It seems she isn't any longer. Anyway, I spoke to her at Russell's. It's a long story how she got there, and I won't go into it right now. But she told us about Grace. My point is, I should've heard it from _you_."

She stepped around the island, brushing against Tom on her way to the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm leaving, Tom. Please don't try to stop me. I'm too tired for drama right now."

He shook his head wildly. "Where will you go?"

"To Russell's." She faced him, her face hard and her lips drawn into a thin, straight line. "I'm going back to my husband. My _first_ husband. It's taken me some time, but I realize now. I still love him. He's the father of my children. And I'm going to make things right with him."

Tom scowled at her, drawing in a sharp breath. "No. Please, Mariel. Don't do this to us, please. I love you—"

"Tom, please. I said I'm too tired for drama…and lies." She made a dusting motion with her hands. "I'm done. It's over."

"Mariel, no, please. You can't do this. _Mariel_!"

Had she really expected him simply to allow her to walk out the door? He wasn't going to make it easy. She thought about going upstairs and throwing some clothes into an overnight bag, but common sense told her to wait him out. Give him a chance to accept that it was over. She would leave that house with only her purse and the clothes on her back, returning to it later, when he had a chance to calm down.

"Russell's married again, Mariel," Tom argued, trudging behind her.

"Well, maybe you haven't heard: He's a widower now. He needs me as much as I need him right now."

Stepping around her, he threw himself against the door, sprawling out his arms. "I can't let you do this, Mariel. You're not thinking straight right now. Please, listen to me. Please, I love you. I need you, too. I need you more than he does. Don't do this to me. Please, Mariel, honey, please. Don't leave me for him, _please_!"

"Tom, get out of—"

The doorbell rang, interrupting them. She returned Tom's stare, almost moved by the tears in his eyes. Almost, but that was it. She refused to be dissuaded. When no response came, the visitor rang the doorbell again.

"You should see who that is, Tom," Mariel told him softly.

After a second he moved away from the door and yanked it open, his movements so jerky they startled her. Standing there in the portal was a pale Kira, her eyes wide but tired. Beside her was Deputy Lewis Sirk, with his arm draped protectively around her shoulders.

"Kira," Mariel breathed, a smile finally coming to her. "Oh—you're safe."

Tom stepped aside, allowing her to embrace her stepdaughter first. That was a motion that didn't go unnoted by Mariel. She couldn't tell for certain and she knew he wasn't about to come clean with her, but she surmised he had seen Kira sometime earlier and he'd known she would be safe. Laughing more from relief, she gave Lewis a welcoming hug as well.

"Come on in, Lewis," Tom coaxed him. "We were just—Mariel and I will fix you something to eat if you're hungry."

She shot him a look but then shook her head, snorting. If he really thought he'd get away with that, taking advantage of the situation because he thought she wouldn't carry through on her threat in front of Kira and Lewis, then Tom was sadly mistaken. This had just gone beyond the point of no return.

"I—I'm sorry, Kira, I'm going to be leaving," she addressed her stepdaughter.

"Mariel," Tom said.

"Leaving? Where?" Kira frowned, confused.

"I'll call you later, honey. I'll explain later."

"Mariel…" Tom's voice was an undisguised plea.

"_Later_, Kira." She looked from Tom to the innocent girl again. "I'm sorry, honey. We'll talk later. Anyway, I'm glad you're home, safe and sound. I love you, Kira."

"I—I love you, too, Mariel."

She had to leave. She couldn't afford to stay in that house one moment longer. If she stayed, she would be staying for the wrong reasons. Those weren't three empty words; she'd meant them. She loved her stepdaughter as her own, after having raised her since she was a little thing, after her mother's death.

Oh, but that was right: Her mom _wasn't_ dead. With a shaking hand, Mariel turned the key in the ignition to her car, backing it out of the driveway.

She stopped only long enough to see Tom in the window. Staring at her through the glass, his mouth slightly open, his expression wounded and lost. If she stared back at him for too long, she wouldn't leave that place; she'd drive back onto the property and stay there, and she knew that was one thing she couldn't do. She had to return to Russell. She had to make things right with the man she'd left, and she couldn't allow Tom to sweet-talk her or seduce her again.

And yet there was a break in her heart that she couldn't deny as she stared back at him, angry at him and at the same time wanting to rush back into that house and fall into his arms. But she couldn't give into those emotions.

If she fell into any man's arms, they would be Russell Varon's.

_Author's Note: First, I want to apologize to the readers of "After the Storm" for my long delay in getting this chapter to you. I've been working on other projects (books), but I haven't forgotten this story at all & I don't want to keep you hanging. I hope to get the rest of the story to you in much better time. Thanks for your comments & do let me know what you think! Hope you enjoy it--Seabluemermaid._


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

By some miracle, the old man was alive. Hanging by a thread, no doubt, but bravely he was fighting for his life. That had to be the first reason to smile Sheriff Tom Underlay had had in several hours.

It was awkward walking into the hospital. As far as he knew, Mariel wasn't working that evening, but as usual, any emergency could bring her straight there. He had a job to do, a job which he did in his trademark stoic manner.

Yet he couldn't help but look around the corridor…hoping for a glance of her. Maybe she'd come to her senses and realize she was making a mistake, an enormous decision made under duress. Maybe—hopefully—she realized she was shredding his heart in two.

"There's the doctor, sir."

Deputy Lewis Sirk's gentle announcement behind him brought him back to the moment. He recognized the attending physician immediately as Mariel's colleague, Dr. Rolando Castillo. Dr. Castillo, a 50-ish, olive-toned Cuban with thinning hair, slightly overweight, looked as if he'd been expecting them. He stood outside the room marked 4214 dressed in a white lab coat pulled over his shirt, tie and trousers, his legs spread apart a bit as if in a defensive stance. He'd been leafing through the papers on a clipboard but stopped, nodding solemnly at the sheriff.

"Rolando," Tom greeted him with a return nod.

"Tom. Good to see you." The doctor waved a hand at the door behind you. "Not too long, okay? He's sedated and resting, but he's alert. Still, he's been through a lot today."

"I'll bet. You expect him to pull through, though, you said."

"I expect him, too, yes. But the man's seventy-two. If infection sets in, you never know. And of course, this was a traumatic experience that brought on a heart attack." The doctor shook his head, visibly angered. "His dog was killed, the poor man."

"And we're sure this was a robbery?"

"Well, his wallet wasn't on him when they found him. Thief took his clothes, too. Found him wearing only a pair of boxers. Guess the creep wanted to humiliate the poor man. Henry Fineman—that's the gentleman's name—was found by a jogger who spotted his body on the beach. His wallet was missing, his clothes, and his baseball cap."

Tom glanced at Sirk, who said nothing, but in his eyes was indignation.

"Senseless," Tom remarked.

"Sure, it is. What can you do?" Dr. Castillo sighed. "Anyway, he was beaten and stabbed several times."

"Stabbed with a knife?"

"I don't know. I just know those are…very interesting stab wounds."

"What do you mean?"

Dr. Castillo shook his head, hesitating. Finally, he replied, "It's—well, I know it's crazy, but I've seen that type of wound before. That was about four years ago when they brought in a man who'd been swimming several yards from shore, off a boat. The puncture wounds had been made by the barb of a stingray."

Tom looked from the doctor's face to the door, then back again. "That's what this looks like to you?"

"Yes. Except…that must be one giant stingray, judging by the size of the wounds. So that can't be it. This creature was definitely on two legs. Anyway, again—please keep it brief."

"We will."

_This creature was definitely on two legs. Yeah, well, don't count on it having been human, Doc_, Tom thought.

What disaster had Grace sent them? As he entered the room with Sirk in tow, he saw the man lying so still on the bed. Hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor, he looked pale but peaceful. He could have been someone's grandfather who'd just dozed off on the porch after lunch.

All that changed, though, when he opened his eyes and caught sight of the two men in his room. Either the meds they'd pumped into him or the abrupt arousal from sleep had him seeing monsters that weren't there instead of a sheriff and his deputy, both lawmen in uniform.

Or, if their case, Tom mused sadly, maybe he _did_ see two monsters underneath those deceptive uniforms. He'd used that same term to his daughter once, when he'd explained why people wouldn't accept a fully-healed Lewis Sirk. _Because they'll think he's a monster_.

_Like your dad_, he could have very well added.

But he couldn't think of that now. He couldn't think of it too much at all. He could only remind himself of that uniform and what it meant, and that he had a job to do. That, alone, gave him the strength to proceed.

Tom touched the elderly man's arm. "It's all right, Mr. Fineman. I'm Sheriff Tom Underlay and this is my deputy, Lewis Sirk. We'd just like to ask you a few questions, if you're up to it."

"Sheriff Underlay?" the man repeated. He sank back against his pillow, looking warily from Tom to Sirk and back again. At last, he relaxed. "He killed my dog."

"Oh, I heard. We're very sorry about that, sir."

"My dog, my dog…" Fresh tears welled in the man's eyes. "I had him for ten years. Lost my wife not long before. It was Bogey who helped me make it through that time. I would've been so lonely without my dog, you know."

"I know, sir." Tom managed a sad, small grin. "I've lost a dog, too."

And a wife. Two, actually. All of those losses had hurt like hell. Tom gazed down at the man with compassion but recalled what the doctor had said about keeping the visit brief.

"The perpetrator—the man who did this to you and…Bogey. Can you describe him?"

The old man composed himself, nodding slowly. "Young. About your age."

Tom grinned. To the seventy-ish man, yes—a man in his forties probably was a young guy. "Tall? Short?"

"Tall. Muscular. He was also naked. Out there in public—he was naked." Fear flashed in his eyes again. "He stabbed me. But you know—you know—not with his hands. And in the water, in the water…"

"Take your time, sir," Lewis said soothingly.

"In the water…I saw them before I blacked out, Sheriff…there were…lights."

With her tiny baby gurgling in the pouch strapped securely around her shoulders, Larkin stepped gingerly through the woods. She found the road with no problem; in fact, it brought her a smile and the warmth that came from being around familiar surroundings again.

She was so excited, her heart may as well have belonged to a happy-go-lucky five-year-old. Hopefully, Grace Underlay wouldn't be too angry with her. Larkin knew what Grace had said, how it was necessary for her to remain on the island for some time. In time, she would reunite with Russell.

The truth was, however, that she couldn't wait. It was an actual need to see him again, a physical, emotional, and spiritual need to touch him, to have him near her again.

Grace would be upset, and Larkin appreciated everything she'd done for her, but she would surely understand. Larkin picked up the pace as she walked, envisioning that first kiss she'd share with Russell. She could still remember—but then again, how could she ever forget?—what his mouth tasted like, how it felt to be in his strong arms.

There it was! Her home. Russell's home. Their little love shack, as they'd teasingly nicknamed the modest place. She laughed and had to remind herself not to run for her baby's safety, but her heart felt as light as puffs of cloud.

Her brother, the kids. She would see them all again. That was a miracle, she realized. If it hadn't been for Grace—and she had to give credit to Tom, too, because he was the one who'd saved her—she wouldn't have been there to savor their hugs and kisses, the look of sweet surprise sure to be on their faces when they saw her again after believing her to be dead.

But most of all, she wanted to see Russell again. She could hardly contain herself, so thrilled at the thought of that moment, when he held their child for the very first time. She always knew she loved him, but until now she hadn't known how much she truly adored that man.

But…where were the kids? Mariel's car in front of the house told her they were at their stepdad's home. Well, that came as a disappointment, but really, Jesse and Rosie were only a short drive away.

No Dave, either. She'd peeked into his little place. Was only Russell home and Mariel was visiting? Perhaps it was Tom using the station wagon, though that was doubtful. Tom typically came over in the sheriff's cruiser.

_Something's not right here_. Larkin sensed that; something told her she shouldn't have stepped any further into the house. Under her breath she uttered a quick prayer: _Let it be Tom. Please. Not…_

Her prayer ended when she saw Mariel in the kitchen. _My kitchen_. Russell's ex-wife had her back to her. She was opening two bottles of bear. And…she was barefoot, wearing only one of Russell's shirts.

Larkin gasped, the only sound she could make at that moment. Hearing it, Mariel turned. Now Larkin could see that the shirt was unbuttoned, though her breasts weren't visible and the table concealed everything else. Shock registered on Mariel's face, her eyes widening. One of the bottles slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor.

"Larkin," she said in a strangled voice. "Larkin—oh, my God…"

Stumbling backward, Larkin caught sight of her husband in the doorway to the bedroom. He wore only briefs and a T-shirt. Ironically, her baby gurgled contentedly behind her.

Her fears were confirmed. Tears burned her eyes and her throat constricted.

Russell went completely pale. "Larkin? Baby, is that you?"

Of course. How could she have been so stupid? Had she really believed he'd forgotten Mariel? She'd always been between them. She might have been married to Tom, but she'd always remained there…in Russell's heart. Like the ghost of another woman in their bed, sleeping between them.

"I see you're over me, Russell," Larkin said bitterly. "Nice to know you're over your grief."

Mariel set the other bottle on the counter. She avoided looking at either of them. "I—I'd better go."

"No, you stay. You belong here. _I'm_ the one leaving." Larkin glared at Russell. "And this time, I'm _never_ coming back!"

"No, Larkin, please," he pleaded. "Please listen. Please, I thought you were—"

Yet she had heard and seen enough. Darting from the room, she slammed open the door and ran out. She could hear him running behind her, but that didn't stop her from escaping. The tears, heated by hurt and frustration, streamed down her face.

Now it was so clear. Grace had known about this. That was why she hadn't wanted her to return to the home she'd shared with Russell. She'd tried to protect her from being utterly devastated. Larkin realized as she hurried through the brush that she should have listened to her friend.

And that maybe Russell had never belonged to her at all. He would always be Mariel's.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER 12**

_Now what_?

Mariel didn't know the answer to that question, only that she had to find somewhere to stay for the night. Probably longer. What a dilemma: There she was, a well-paid doctor, homeless. Temporarily homeless, but still homeless.

Luckily, she had a stash of napkins in the car's glove compartment. At a red light she grabbed a handful to wipe her tears and blow her nose. A quick glance at the wallet in her purse calmed her somewhat. Debit card, American Express, Visa. Good. She had her pick as to where she would stay as long as the hotel had an available room.

Because she couldn't go back to Tom. And she couldn't—_wouldn't_—go back to Russell's.

Larkin was alive. Mariel knew that should have been a joyous discovery, once the shock of it died down. There she'd stood, a real-life, flesh-and-blood woman. As beautiful as ever, no sign of having been shot brutally and then cast to the sea in hopes of making her whole. Which, evidently, had worked after all.

And…strapped to her back was Larkin's baby. Russell's child.

Mariel sobbed into a napkin, gripping the steering wheel tighter with her other hand. It did no good to be so emotional while behind the wheel, but it couldn't be helped, could it? One moment she was in bed with Russell. Kissing him again…holding him…enjoying the heat of his body pressing against hers as they made love.

That night, she'd become his again. Whatever spell Tom had cast over her had been broken. The love she'd had for Russell had never died; she knew that now. It had only cooled, been dormant. But it had come alive full-force that night with the strength of ten hurricanes.

And then Larkin, Russell's present wife, had returned.

There was a little motel, a cheap one, right off the interstate, about five miles down. That'd be good. It was frequented mostly by truckers…and men cheating on their wives, she noted with irony. No one from the hospital would see her there. She didn't want to see anyone she knew tonight.

She didn't want to have to explain herself.

"I'm not a bad person," she said in a whisper, sounding like a confused child. "I'm not. Not a bad person."

But she _was_ a hybrid. She had changed, and not for the better.

There was a loud popping sound that startled her, making Mariel let out a yelp. She grasped the wheel in both hands to steady the car.

Great! Now she had a flat. Was there no end to that night's fun? She lifted her foot off the accelerator, just managing to keep the car from veering into a tree.

It was totally out of character for her—but hell, then again, so was having sex with another woman's husband—but she cursed as she got out of the car, leaving her purse in the passenger seat. In her frustration she kicked the driver's side door and cried harder.

Larkin was alive. How was she supposed to have known that? Had she thought for one moment that Larkin was alive, she would never have slept with Russell Varon.

The man who had been her husband…until she left him for Tom. Tom—the man who had turned her into this, this _thing_ that she now was.

Turning, she leaned against the car door and cried. She brought her cell phone out of her pocket, staring at it glumly for some seconds.

Who could she call? Not Russell. She'd caused enough trouble for him in one day, hadn't she? Certainly not Dave. Once Dave got wind of what had happened, he'd hate her, and rightfully so.

_No_! _Not_ rightfully. She reminded herself again that she hadn't known Larkin was alive. She'd thought, as everyone else had, that Larkin was dead.

Such surprises. Grace was alive.

And now Larkin.

Mariel wiped her nose with the damp napkin.

AAA. She could call them. That was a relief, considering the only other person she could have called was Tom. Something else she couldn't do, she thought ruefully.

"_Marieeeeeeeeeel_…"

Straightening up, she looked out at the woods. That had to be her imagination. The wind, combined with the sound of planes flying overhead. And hadn't she also heard the low rumble of thunder in the distance?

Mariel swore again. She had come to hate thunder. Thunder, lightning, anything having to do with rain, she had learned to hate.

"_Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_…"

Her heart began to beat fiercely with that rise of adrenaline coursing through her. Was that the low growl of an animal? Or some psychopath toying with her?

"Who's there?" she demanded in a steady voice.

Listening intently, she heard the sound of thunder again. The wind rustling through the trees. No answer came to her.

How far was she from help? She remembered seeing a diner on the side of the road, one of those in that old-fashioned style, within several yards of a gas station. That had been maybe two or three miles ago. In a half hour, give or take some minutes, she could walk back there and find help.

The sudden ring of her cell phone made her jump. Quickly, she flipped it open and frowned.

The number coming across the screen was unfamiliar to her.

"Hello?" she greeted the caller anxiously.

"Good evening, Dr. Underlay. You seem…distressed."

Her breaths were coming faster as she pushed away from the car and looked around. "Who is this?"

_This wasn't an accident_. Her tire blowing out had been on purpose.

This was a trap.

"You know, Mariel, it's not very nice," the male voice on the other line informed her calmly, tauntingly, "stealing another woman's man like that. Especially when the man is…well, an inferior human. Russell Varon is so very inferior to your current husband, Tom."

She ignored his attempt to embarrass her. "I'm one of you. What do you want?"

His chuckle was light. "How convenient of you to remember you're one of us now. You were changed, Mariel, but you were never one of us. You had one foot in this world and one in ours. Ultimately, you belonged to neither world."

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice rising in anger.

The answer came in a detached tone that was chilling: " Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.' "

Shakespeare. Mariel couldn't remember where it was from—Hamlet or Macbeth—but the words frightened her and sent her walking fast, away from her car and toward the road.

Then, like a dark angel, a figure lighted to the ground several feet in front of her. Gasping, she dropped the phone and stared, at a momentary lost for words.

MARLINS. The man in front of her, with his head bowed, wore a Marlins baseball cap. But then he raised his head and glared at her, and she remembered at once that this was no man, no human at all.

"Don't be afraid, Dr. Underlay," it told her. "I'm here to set you free…"

The sun had set and the starless sky was darkening on the deep August night. Grace Underlay had been training—actually, brushing up on the skills she would be needing when they overtook the inhabitants of the earth, skills that included shooting—but now she was making her way to the shore.

Sure enough, her sentinels had been correct. That was Larkin, with her baby in the pouch strapped to her back, returning to the remote key on the small motorboat.

Grace was tired, but she quickened her gait nonetheless to meet her second-in-command as she secured the boat to land. Larkin hadn't appeared to recognize her at first, which slightly amused Grace. That made sense, since she rarely wore jeans and had cut her hair in a style that was short, manageable and, on her, gave her a rather wild, appealing look.

"Where'd you run off to?" she asked. "You didn't tell anyone and I was worried about you."

"Oh…I think you can guess where I went." Larkin wasn't being argumentative; if anything, she came across as embarrassed.

Grace didn't play games with her. "Oh. Well…how was the reunion?"

"Not good. I should have listened to you. I wouldn't feel like I do right now." Forcing a smile, Larkin accepted a sisterly hug from her. "He was with her, Grace."

"I see." She didn't have to ask who the woman with Varon was; Grace instinctively knew. She also understood that if Mariel had been with Russell, then she hadn't been with Tom. But her friendship with Larkin Groves, and her affection for her, made her stop short of feeling triumphant.

"She gets around, that girl," she said.

The comment made Larkin laugh, though somewhat sadly. "Anyway, I'm sorry I disappeared on you that way."

"It's all right. You're free to go where you wish. You're not a prisoner here, Larkin."

That wasn't 100 The Truth, of course. Yet Grace had surprised herself with the desire that, where she was concerned, it was.

"Still, you worried about me. It won't happen again." Larkin walked slowly with her toward the compound. The baby reached out a tiny hand and Grace caught it tenderly, smiling. "But if you don't mind, I—I need to—"

"You need to be alone. Of course. I understand. I'll have supper sent to your room."

"I'm not very hungry."

"I can imagine, but try to eat a little something, Larkin. You'll need your strength. And you're nursing Jenny. You need to take care of yourself."

Reluctantly, Larkin nodded. "You know something, Grace? I know you'll think it's stupid, but I still love him. No matter what I saw tonight, no matter how badly he hurt me, I still love Russell."

"I don't think that's stupid at all." Grace spoke from her heart.

Larkin looked almost afraid as she spoke her next words. "I love him so much, I don't know if—if I can really…"

"Go and rest, honey. You had your heart broken tonight. We can talk about this in the morning. 'Kay?"

_I don't know if I can really destroy him_. That was what Larkin had meant to say, but the words had fought her. Grace understood that fully.

Especially because the full scope of her mission had finally become clear to her, and that it entailed destroying Tom and Kira if they continued to rebel. That wasn't to say that she would surrender, either; if there was a way, any way at all, to persuade Kira or hide her somewhere safe until her daughter could be convinced that this was all for the best, Grace would do it. That was a secret, something she wasn't making known, though she believed she could trust Larkin Groves with it.

Kira, she would attempt to save, if it meant losing her own life. Tom, on the other hand, was a lost cause. She couldn't save him, and even if she could, he would refuse her help.

And the reality of that, despite how much she tried to tell herself she didn't care, tore at her heart.

Grace lingered, watching Larkin disappear into the compound. The young woman was more devastated than she was letting on. Grace would have to give her time, a little space to heal.

From the distance came the sound of a motor. An approaching boat.

Drawing her .45 from its holster, she turned and headed back toward the beach. The intruder—she could make him out once the boat was close enough—was Russell Varon. He was in his park ranger uniform, though his shirt was unbuttoned. The wind ruffling his dark, wavy hair gave him an untamed appearance.

That insolent bastard! He'd spotted her and was glaring right back at her. Grace returned insolence with insolence, greeting him with a smirk…and a raised weapon aimed directly at him. She wouldn't think twice about shooting him, either, so he would be well advised not to test her.

"Men!" she scoffed under her breath. "Ever hear of calling before you barge in, guys?"


End file.
